When our cat
comes inside I
smell outside in
his fur which is
currently a metaphor
but will later still
probably be a metaphor.
by JS Gilbert
by JS Gilbert
Billy Collins doesn’t
have a Twitter account so
you’ll have to follow him
more craftily. Not
in his footsteps, but
slightly to the right or
farly to the left, or
with binoculars as he
serpentines through an alpine
pass, hoping you never find
the map he left crumpled
beneath the coffee grounds.
In 1980 the Yomiuri Giants
signed outfielder Gary Thomasson
for 1.2 million dollars
which he used to birth
a metaphor by sitting
on the bench, hitlessly waving
his bat and spinning,
they said, like
a Giant Human Fan.
And so ‘Thomasson’ came to
represent a contradictory remnant
within our built environment.
Once usefully functional,
now functionally useless,
yet conspicuously maintained.
A doorknob in a wall;
a bridge connecting two halves of air;
a spiral staircase, leading
I don’t know how much God
spent building me, and I could
probably figure the maintenance
from gas bills and groceries
and Netflix subscriptions but
I know the cost to save me
so I so often pray that I am
more than a doorless balcony and
that he would, once, tell me
where my stairs
His single sheet
of lined paper
was aligned with his
single pencil
which rested atop
his single table which
wobbled next to mine.
And though his hands
were folded, waiting,
and though his eyes
were fixed, unwavering,
into space, I think
I was more expectant.
i meant to write this yesterday
as space and time allowed
but my son came down in his baseball cap
and asked to watch a show
we’re trapped inside this iso home
together and alone
passing time adjacently
as he just gets more grown
so while my craft is withering
and needs attentive care
i’m not about to let this chance
pass by me
unaware
They say cats bring gifts, wriggling, to
our doorsteps because they don’t trust
us to feed ourselves and so we should be
thankful for snakes, voles, moles, and mice
carried haughtily up the steps but
I’m not the one who falls off the bed.
Still I couldn’t think of a damn
thing to write. Couldn’t catch the bird
in the bush despite the pen in my hand
as he sauntered toward the screen,
robin thrashing in his jaws, and said,
through a mouth-full of feathers,
‘Well?’
Have you,
of a morning,
been running,
when two mailboxes,
black, at the top of a rise,
align, and,
from the corner of your eye,
(if you squint)
nearly plausibly resemble a
tight-wound dog,
coiled and wagging,
anxious to bound and
crash with love,
lick the lonely from your face?
Yeah.
Me either.
I don’t know
what
angelic aerodynamics were involved
in sending Christ from his Father’s
right hand to Mary’s womb
but when my son took
off toward his grandparents at
140 knots my heart leapt
to follow with stubby wings
which floundered
in his wake and I
wasn’t even sending him
to be crucified
only coddled by flight
attendants who knew
exactly who
he was.
Probable Cause
They were hoodled
against
the frost and crossed
against
the light
across
the path of the officers
who—
jackets unzipped
—pulled to the side,
searched pockets
and coats for
evidence
they weren’t white
enough to saunter
through the cold.
Published in Strange City Digest, Winter/Spring 2021.