Blackbirdan online journal of literature and the artsFall 2018  Vol. 17 No. 2
an online journal of literature and the arts
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What I Am Looking for Is What Is Looking

A single day is all I need for now,
and enough wool to clothe a tribe.

Weightlessness destroys
all muscle, even the heart,

which requires the burden
of its own heft

to keep rhythm. Say what you
will about god, but he is certainly

inventive. In an instant,
he could tear apart your father

then build you a new one
from the pieces. Like a mother

trying her own milk, he is growing
more and more curious

by the minute. I am wearing his wonder
like a long cape, squinting

into the fog, covering
my yawns. Behind me is silence.

Ahead is joy, different
from anything I’ve ever

known as joy. When I was four years old
I was already nostalgic

for three. My face was so bright,
you could only make me out

by the cherry juice stains on my
cheeks. I wanted to keep

everything I touched:
a red spoon, a saffron

country, a dying cricket. This
made each meal

last for ages—I’d inspect
the table, take the tiniest bite

of bread, then hold it in my
mouth till it went sweet.

There is always a hair that divides
what is false and what is

true—I have been collecting each
of these, weaving them into

a luscious wig which I must
respectfully insist I be allowed

to wear to any occasion. The
best lullabies keep tempo with

the mother’s heartbeat. God,
exhausted by silence, finally

built himself a world,
filled it with falling

rain and animal cries.
Some days it’s difficult

to hear him tapping along
over all the clamor.

Some days it’s difficult
to hear anything else.  

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