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Portrait of An Imaginary Bed
Wait— I want to be sure— you still work       if you are an alarm     or a person

I was visiting your apartment  Was it in the city you live in     or was it in my city    as if I live in only       one city   I’ve never been there   where you actually live     as if you live in              a place             isn’t solid      

The weather was saying “It’s going to be windy in the city”    and we laughed
because my family was already in the city    in some other borrowed apartment     or hotel      my long lean descendants       boys not merely boys

   and therefore     we knew it was windy    so windy the windows might shatter

We laughed at the radio                       in this post post century       you   almost expect to be         blown to tatters            it isn’t funny     but we laugh as if we were
  irredeemable object-bodies

Everything is already happening here   say it as if it were        news so we are less
            afraid or blustered    

See how quickly your writing fills the page?       he’s calm    he’s in his body far away    
he does not understand          he’s not understandable


I said, it’s good to hear your voice.  He said, is it?  (my own father)   his brain

A poet hands me a paper notebook      journal paper              a booklet made of burlap or
            gabardine         made of direct silences   you made that up    handwritten
asks if I’ve seen this booklet    it’s called “Orange”      but the cover says “Ginger”
             in real life she didn’t write back           I sit to read adamantly  and only    
have to touch    because the writing is so omnipotent             set everything up with    handwritten      letters                for instance     the rest of your life

Write all about how I cannot write to you           how does it happen  the forbidden  why is
      the forbidden so real         and the unwritten-undone 

I’m reading the poet’s sentences        we arrived late               others are leaving
    my family looks at me           why were we late?       the wind           impatience
             but I want to start reading

In the quiescent night            so loudly obviously          when we were busy     don’t I like anything?  Their leaving is too close to death                as it becomes real

Then a male poet crowds me   you know his name       it’s obvious he owns his own
   importance     He sits not just next to me     but almost on top of me       Takes the book
Orange or Ginger from my hands     he doesn’t ask or say hello    just takes it and sits so 
close I can’t breathe      his stomach is crushing me     he is reading
   not lovingly but quickly      like an ad for speed-reading         finger tracing lines

He wants to demonstrate how he absorbs                     it’s instant       and then it’s part of him     though he doesn’t admit this   he just steals or assimilates    and eventually stands up but I never got to that part    I’m stuck in his dominance    that frame  or loss of     perspective  not acknowledged     

I write until the pen runs out
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  • HOME
  • WINTER 2022 ISSUE
  • SUBMISSIONS
    • Submission Form
  • ABOUT
  • LITTLE BLACK BOOK
    • A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS
  • SHOP