readings in a lost november
the room is warm, and I lean against a window,
sipping apple tea and listening to an essay
that I have heard before. it's a little different now,
better, I think, though it is hard to say; it's always
hard to say with readings, when the words
flow and rush and disappear, refusing to let you
re-enter; they have already moved beyond you
and into the next poem. one poet dances up
and down the alphabet, lingering on A for pages
which feels appropriate, since A is important,
and K is really only good for kissing. well, no --
but it could be and is for a few minutes until
we break for chocolate and glazed donuts,
then return. the new poet sings, slides up and
down melody lines, and the harmonies are buried;
you could pretend there were only melodies
if you cared to. but we know better; we know
that she takes old films and projects them onto
women's bodies; educational films, and one of fish
hangs in my living room over the television.
I think my fish are watching the photograph.
this is a poet who works in layers. the last takes a
piece of a novel; she draws a map on the board,
and tells us who and what and where and why
the girl in her story is diving in the water. I am
listening to her story, and the words are sliding by
me and like the girl in her story, I am getting lost
in the past, in the words, in the sun on the water
pulling words up out of the girl who is losing herself,
getting lost in the past, in her father and the boat
and the words and the darkness underneath and the fish;
it always comes back to the fish, doesn't it?
More poems.