Spring 2008 Issue - The Harvard Advocate

1.

Not understanding

what I was I



took a piece out

of my side and



smashed it

and diffused it through



the hole in what

had been my side



beginning to see

myself though

faintly still just



catching at

myself. I



was dust. And

distance, distance



descried by

dust. I am



no longer together, I

said, perhaps I am



free. And I



ignited then.



2.



Some parts I



remember. For

example, when I drew



out from bleared dark

alive my shape, alive



how it trembled

dark to



pieces. Later, how

my many bodies

swam together,



silvering. And I

remember the stitch of



dusk, the dew



that rose to meet

my instep arch. The first



time I flew. The first time

I was afraid.



3.



I have given

the last of my



dreams away

to the separate

animals. They



do not know me, who

am them. And I



do not recall



building this city, its

black water blooming



on its walls. I must

have placed one



stone upon a stone,

and then another stone



upon a stone,

the dust motes as I



did it crying fool, and

crying star, crying



let go, let



go, and then just go,

and then just



o.

They tell the phone not to worry,



they lock up the doors.



Then, they tape mouth of the mailbox shut,



thinking: who would write? There is nothing



to write home about.



The address is hard to remember.



 



On weekends, they take walks.



It helps them



stay young, they say, and they forget



what they meant, where they were.



The house breathes out,



the window rests its head 



against the mountain



they are climbing, opens up, swallows.  



The nearby church rings its bells for dinner 



and they eat bread on a bench.  



 



She cooks by a dictionary.



He watches television, grows a beard like a newspaper pile,



he speaks very little. He throws the leftover pages



at the cat. It walks away, its steps



are stamps on the carpet.



 



They go to sleep still dressed and with the radio on.



It plays sad songs, then good ones,



then the news, then it listens



to the raucous laughter of late guests coming in,



sitting on the upturned chairs by the table.



 



After they leave, the window is unhinged 



and the mountain



can leap out again.