Two Poems by Erica Hunt
This week in the PEN Poetry Series, Guest Editor Dawn Lundy Martin features two poems by Erica Hunt. About Hunt’s work, Martin writes: “What pulls me unendingly into Erica Hunt’s poetry is its openness, its unspoken questions, alongside the questions made explicit. Hers is an investigation of interstitial urgency emergent from the cracks in America and its broken rhetoric, the cracks in our hearts, and that inevitable space between humans when we attempt to shrink the gap and get close. I love when it sings, too, precise in its attention to the line and the resplendent vowel and sometimes an ‘h’ like a vowel. These poems want to call us inside of them to wrestle with the ‘splintered and hushed,’ but they do so with a sonic hopefulness that leaves me breathless.”
Mourning Birds
Here a thousand birds dispute
The gun going off
the random back fire
who handled who
and who rose to be recognized
and how the body came to be fresh
fallen there
and why the girl was tackled
and how her wrists looked slight in hand cuffs
and the exact nature of the orange pin
and the load glassing her eyes
the load incalculable and
the incalculable load
Here a thousand birds dispute
the fresh blood on the sidewalk
the battle line, how it was drawn
how the sides were chosen
had there been a trial
Or any doubt and if so
how it was framed
did the shot hang in the air and who
was there to hear it, and here
Hold this thought—4 are shot per day
As xenon follows its element
Or night its day time shadow
As penumbra fades into solids
and endures a rain of blows
—there falls a reign of blows
Here a thousand birds dispute
What went wrong
the stopped clock
the orange pin
the random call
the fall from childhood
the fall, the incalculable fall,
the fall incalculable
this time to not let the familiar
obsequies masking obscenity
twist lips, the birds dispute
these too, the televised worship of cinders is riveting
junk heartache abetted by hollow gestures
The birds’ disputations grow louder
frantic against glass
stunned splintered and hushed,
in shadowy, honeyed innocence
The gun going off
The random back fire…..
appears as random as asking
who’s got the gun
who owns the gun
who sold the gun
who pulls the gun
and who does the gun let sleep.
Unlikely places
There may be saints balanced on bar stools
Their de-accessioned memories vanishing in the mirror before them
yet foot tapping, rationing beats
as precisely as mallets run through
time on drum skins.
They trade heart beats
back and forth, close the seams. I watch your face
between then and now, a work in progress
so ribboned with language
I don’t remember who flipped the rhythm to the horns
who set the drums on pin-wheeling 32nds
second thoughts.
We were atoms, confetti, confection
a bouquet of unattended notes, then bodies, then mass.
We were between sips of water
reading the wrong scores, imagining only fire and losses,
the glass emptied of its last melody
then hear this: slide the deuce to the person
who so unlikely brings air and dark wood to breathless sorrow (
a parenthesis to catch this brutal finitude.
)
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