In that country there is a train

that stops when it gets tired    It doesn’t bother

to read the signs    There is a man in my car

who claims to be French

but does not understand me

when I ask quelle heure

est-il    He shows me a picture of a man

and points to himself    And the man

in the picture has a different

face    For weeks I have been woken up

by dreams in which I open my mouth

to speak    and only then discover

I am underwater    In the backseat of

a cab I go through all the Arabic phrases

I know in my head    how much

is the bread   and    the son

is in the garden with the cow    and    I love,

I am a woman    In the front seat

it sounds like the cab driver is yelling

at the man next to him    I think

they are discussing the best streets

to take    Meanwhile under another country’s

ocean certain navy officers produce

horrible noises to scare away

the whales    The navy needs this portion

of the ocean to be devoid of whales

so they can perform

exercises     No one in the navy

bothers to learn the language

of the whales    They think that if their noises

are loud enough 

the whales will get the gist    In the city

I meet another American woman    She says

she is having a party in her apartment

When I get there everyone is speaking

English    We sit on a rug in the middle

of the floor and she serves us

Hamburger Helper    Everyone is talking

very loudly and I do not have anything to say

to any of them    In the middle of a bite

of artificially colored pasta

I look up and see you looking

at me    You glance at your plate

and then back up at me and

you roll your eyes    We do not speak

a word out loud    I swim up through

the surface of the water

and take a deep breath    I hope the whales

are still living in that ocean    saying

to each other    what was all

that noise about   

ecantwell:

Splash of Red just published two new poems of mine - go check them out, if you’re into that kind of thing. 

Elizabeth Cantwell has two new poems out.

As you can see, they are the sort that remind you why you ever loved poetry and that, thank God, the best sorts have not all, already been written.  The best sorts, of course, being those you hold your breath through the first time and read out loud the second, with whispered cadence, pretending to be Sylvia Plath at the shore.

(via beenthinking)