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| Because,
Because, Because Not many interruptions.
Not too many words. He is a list, so he lists. She tells
this story to her son. In the hope he will learn how to
read. She holds the book open but all he sees are the pictures
and her hands. Her fingers. The bulbs that are her
knuckles. The story was about a man who kept a list and planted
knucklebones. Some turned into diamonds, others grew into men
with eyes that gleamed. Does the kid laugh or wonder? Will
that child grow up into me? It feels comfortable to hold my hands
like this and scheme like the man in the story. The one who kept
a list of stories and planted knuckle bones by the thousands, all in
vain she tells her son, because, because, because.
The Book, the Only Book There Is In
time’s sentence men take
their place like commas. Of course we are short pauses, a means
to parse each phrase. Remember how you headed west? Through
the book as though it was an atlas, a collection of charts. A
representation of the world, one which could be held in your
hand. That could kidnap you though you do not live with your
parents and you no longer are a kid. That feels like happiness,
both things. You know you are good, that you started out
good. What will you do to change this? A blueprint for the
house where they’ll find your body with yourself still inside it.
Don’t lose your place. Follow it with your finger. The one
connected to your hand.
Little Dent The
bus wound through
flatland. Not like a snake. More like a child who is
determined but easily distracted. As he packs up his house he can
look through the open ladder. See the outline where the shelves
used to be. A lattice of dust. One last picture left
hanging. Paper clips. There was momentum in the way the
smaller piles coalesced into larger piles. Now his shoulders
ache. The driver says the world is round only because you have to
return to the exact spot you just left behind. If you get lost
you might get there faster. I think the world is a dent he told
the driver. We make a little dent in its image. He fills
another box with more books he will never read.
Black and Red Birds Make it happen.
Like a
window. It might be a curving body. It might be owned by a
cruel and indifferent master. A story or sex. A body in a
thicket. A lonely body. A red bird explains fire. A
black bird argues about breath. How do you explain? How it
turns out. Like fire. Branches on fire. It was
curved. The red bird wants to be a plot where nothing
happens. A body that leans out a window. The black bird
says all acts go back to burning. Where you used to live.
Where you want to stay. The inside of a story. What is most
missed. It is sad and permanent like sorrow. All of the
birds were keeping their secrets. But the body gives them
away. Like a window.
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hugh steinberg has had work published in Can We Have Our Ball Back?, Volt,
Spork, and American Poetry Review, among others. He is past
recipient of an NEA creative writing fellowship, teaches writing at
California College of the Arts, and is the editor of Freehand, a new
journal devoted to handwritten work.
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