Nov 10, 2015

Against Aristophanes

Written by Jacques Rancourt

Read by Mary Angelino

No e-mails can reach you.
No texts. Here, a smokestack

chokes up soot intermittently.
Cloud-makers, I once called them,

and what a world if that were true.
At the window I tap from

the interior and wait for the ghost
to write back. Only the willow,

starved for water, responds
by clicking a beaded branch

against the glass. At one end
of a parking lot, a Target bag

skims the pavement,
drifts before a thing whose stillness

I took to be a truck at rest,
moonlight on chrome,

its driver asleep across the seats.
How his mother, if she lives,

must worry. I wake and wait
for you to call at this lavender hour.

Nothing strange inside
your heartbeat, irregular as it was,

nothing but your blood’s drum,
your mysterious body

more mysterious now,
more foreign for being

outside of me. I thought
we were made of water,

one soul split in two,
but we are made of canyon,

a sky unpolluted by light
and thus filled with light,

a moon so full
it reveals the desert to be

in motion: a coyote stalking
a trickle of water,

a wren skipping nail to nail
on the arm of a cactus.