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i was reading truong in april
Beatrix Gates
and it was colder inside and
warmer/outside, growing warmer by the minutes left/
in april’s sun—3 minutes more daylight today/the plastic sun
porch, a roaring oven
by 2/when i open the doors/to the inside and let the rush of
heat/set the ceiling fan
in motion/so it’s an early morning here—the hot cold april: how
can it be so cold, so still,
the quality like a well, a
plunge into sadness,
the ground releasing, cold
moistening the old
oak leaves’ cover, sun pulling
cold from the pores,
the small 2-room house
where i sit on the earth, not far from the gray rock outcrop—
here the room fills with
blue—sadness, a throat,
as i read truong’s book. i hear
the heat
of hot stones dropped into the
well.
and i count the number of times
he finds
for the word: whisper
knowing it is the sound of the
hot stone
finding black water in the
earth,
a tongue. his. it’s one
you’ve never heard before.
Quay note: In this issue, also see Gates'
"The View from Pisgah"
and Translation and
collaboration in poetry: An interview with Beatrix Gates.
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