[Realpoetik] WESTON CUTTER

RealPoetik Magazine realpoetik at scn9.scn.org
Mon Oct 8 08:15:31 PDT 2012


The grill kicks an orange hole in the season,

                                    a spear into ribs,

a thief in aisle eleven: I've laid hands on those

                                    massive midwest drills

+ imagined twisting one into a frozen lake til

                                    water quit its solid

seasonal stubbornness to reveal blinking life

                                    beneath, living stuff

which knows more ways to live with ice than I.

                                    What I know

involves occasional cocoa, salt on the side

                                    walk, recalled or fore

told equitorial stories, Costa Rica or warmer. The

                                    salmon hums bright

pink in the December dusk + the dog believes

                                    falling snow's a question

asked over and over again, he answers with barks,

                                    sniffs anxious

where his two-hours-back footsteps have dis

                                    appeared. The only

chance I've had so far I turned from the hole

                                    in the ice, watched

friends offer vividity to its depth, the lake

                                    a phone booth they

dropped the quarters of their youth into, *hello...*

                                    we all steamed in dark

together. Who knew. They hooted, I hung back.

                                    And what was it they

found or felt? That view, stars the endpoints

                                    of distant icicles. They

emerged dripping, touched blue. *It's like going*

*                                    through*, they said.

To where, to what. Who knew. Ellen loves me

                                    despite that I've

never manned up + dropped myself into

                                    measured harm

+ now the fish is ready, flesh flaky, out of place

                                    in this cold: we

make meals from whatever we can, set the table,

                                    count days till May,

pour the wine, dive in.

*Weston Cutter*'s the author of *You'd Be a Stranger, Too*, a collection of
stories, and the chapbooks *All Black
*(0,0)* <http://floatingwolfquarterly.com/10/weston-cutter/#0/contents>. He
runs the book review  website corduroybooks.com/ and has poems coming soon
in *diode* and *Copper Nickel*.

[image: https://mail.google.com/mail/images/cleardot.gif]

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