Keep it if you catch it

The poet dies.

Buk suggests killing the fish,
by first removing it's eyes,
and then it's fins
(for precaution, in case
it should attempt to swim).
Dear Buk,
the fish was dead when I removed it
from the water.
I would prefer one by one then,
to kill it's soul by removing it's scales,
but wouldn't that take long,
aren't there too many pieces?
A fish cannot have less than
three thousand scales.
Oh, but kill it, Buk said.
What if I prefer to let it free
without any record of ever having
held it in my hands?

How many eyes does your heart have?

He asks her:
How many eyes does your heart have?

She answers: One.
But what she really means is:
My heart has as many eyes
as the oldest birch
in the forest.

And sometimes, when other trees
get tangled at my roots and grow
against my heart's life,
My heart grows many more eyes.

He asks her:
How many eyes does your heart have?

She answers: One.

He, on her poetry decides

she,

on poetry decides
birch - tree - fires

(her pages don't look
quite like birch
enough).


she,

on poetry decides
peel - back - bark

(her skin doesn't feel
quite like birch
enough).


she,

on poetry decides
skin - white - eyed

(her skin doesn't feel
quite like paper).

Maybe we should start with what we're afraid to write...

- Sandra McPherson