By Rae Armantrout
Strand. String.
In this dream,
the paths cross
and cross again.
They are spelling
a real boy
out of repetition.
Each one
is the one
real boy.
Each knows
he must be
wrong
about this, but
he can’t feel
how.
The fish
and the fisherman,
the pilot,
the princess,
the fireman and
the ones on fire.
Poet Bio
More By This Poet
Riddance
Ok, we’ve rendered
the rendition
how often?
What were we trying
to get rid of?
We exposed the homeless
character of desire
to the weather.
Shall we talk
about the weather
worsening four times
faster than expected,
eight times,
until the joy
of pattern recognition
kicks in?
Until the crest
...
Twilight
Where there’s smoke
there are mirrors
and a dry ice machine,
industrial quality fans.
If I’ve learned anything
about the present moment
•
But who doesn’t
love a flame,
the way one leaps
into being
full-fledged,
then leans over
to chat
•
Already the light
is retrospective,
sourceless,
is losing itself
though the trees
are clearly limned.
More Poems about Living
if time is queer/and memory is trans/and my hands hurt in the cold/then
there are ways to hold pain like night follows day
not knowing how tomorrow went down.
it hurts like never when the always is now,
the now that time won't allow.
there is no manner of tomorrow, nor shape of today
only like always having...
Here’s an Ocean Tale
My brother still bites his nails to the quick,
but lately he’s been allowing them to grow.
So much hurt is forgotten with the horizon
as backdrop. It comes down to simple math.
The beach belongs to none of us, regardless
of color, or money....
More Poems about Mythology & Folklore
Fairy Tale with Laryngitis and Resignation Letter
You remember the mermaid makes a deal,
her tongue evicted from her throat,
and moving is a knife-cut with every step.
This is what escape from water means.
Dear Colleagues, you write, for weeks
I’ve been typing this letter in the bright
kingdom of my imagination....
Dragons
We gathered in a field southwest of town,
several hundred hauling coolers
and folding chairs along a gravel road
dry in August, two ruts of soft dust
that soaked into our clothes
and rose in plumes behind us.
By noon we could discern their massive coils
emerging...