Untitled
The day I remember leaving
was almost
as lovely
as a mixed-use
facility
with
no use for
fire—
your face
as quiet
as a tall glass of milk,
pure eon,
aion—
the world I thought
I loved.
By the time you had
left for the other
side of the world,
I could have measured
a tactile forest
between us.
But there was
nothing left
of your cynic’s synergy
for me to pull
back into
as I moved
ahead with a
tenuous frame
around me.
Stereophonic
was once code for poem, as if
what the world knows of music could be measured in the interim that the poems
provide. I wanted “my” poems to be a singular affair, but I had no proof that
this would relieve others of their pain. Once, in a longish sort of dream, a
man said that all poems are sugar. I
thought of all the poems I know, including the yews and the horses. Sugar? Is
there a place for an incorrect poem in the world that might somehow touch what
a poem can feel? It’s simple, or so it seems. I guess poems are meant to convey
all that is lovely or intense about a person, place, or thing. No verbs allowed. Or are they?
I always began
the world, likeso, likeso,
learning how to sayso, sayso,
keeping my hands
out of the hellmouth.
*
Yesterday seemed
at least as ornery
for many as when
the first morning
fell away.
No tricks.
No options.
*
The last time I saw
what the first brother
wanted, there
was a mosquelike
place behind him.
The temple where
only a few
would escape
without risking every-
thing.
Laura Carter lives and teaches in Atlanta. Recent chapbooks are out with Dancing Girl Press.
