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May 12, 2016 | Poetry

Two Poems

Rachel Samanie

Two Poems photo

 

Foxhole in the Wall

I’ve seen men punch holes in walls. They lead nowhere – I’ve looked, I tried to escape. I’ve seen what happens afterward too. The hole remains there for days, maybe weeks, ignored. When there’s a threat of someone else seeing it, wondering and judging, the hole gets plastered over. It is never fully repaired to the inches of mere expanse that it was before: when it was even and strong. It is never apologized to, though sometimes a pretty landscape is framed and hung over it. It becomes more hidden, like stains under a rug. I’ve seen men punch holes in walls. I tried to escape, but a fox wandered in and asked for my help. He said he had been wandering around in these walls for years, and when the hole broke through, he broke free. He said he needed guidance, as he was a helpless animal with a wounded sense of direction; that he didn’t know anymore how the world worked outside of these walls. He was so small (and cute!). For weeks I focused all my efforts on rehabilitating him. I gave him love and blankets. I made him several thoughtful meals each day (I wanted him to be healthy!) I sang to him and laughed at his jokes. I told him he was funny and charming and handsome and cute and fun. He said he didn’t like men punching holes in my walls – neither do I, I said – but he was grateful for being set free, as that allowed him to meet me. After weeks, we ran out of food, and then I saw it: the door, not plastered over, but latched shut. Fox said, you thought there was nothing beyond that hole in the wall, but there’s an entire world there I wandered through for years. I’m surprised you never heard me knocking around. I bet there’s even more beyond that door.

 

 

Diorama

I can bleed

around your lips

raspberry stains

and stick around

your hips, something

grasps to keep you           here

communion bread

until we disappear

beneath the sheets

wanting: fantasy

stuck: paper dolls

a maypole

kind of feeling

do you feel

your lips on lips / of bottles

and fruit, pears, cold

& uncalculating

curves, your head

cranes to plastic

wrappers, a goose

with its head stuck

inside; pitiful sight,

your tongue

circles, noiselessly.

You lying bastard

graffiti on the bridge

reproduction mother-belly

grumbling: river

water, what bothers you?

Why so restless

frothing at many

mouths gathering

to a surface, born

of the brewing

something down deeper

stirring, curtains blowing

other domestic figures:

spots beneath coasters

spoons spinning in cups

laughter overheard

in the other room,

these cushions beneath

us, the bark on birch trees

strips like old paint, teasing us

with what’s [not] beneath. 

image: Aaron Burch


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