Potluck

 

T H I S    W E E K

The Theorist by Bo Fisher

 

Three Poems


(untitled)

 

imagine the following

you are alone

you are a dog in a forest

you have always been a wild dog,
will never know your sire was tame

so when you hear thunder in the forest
on clear autumn days

you are not afraid but wistful,
wary of your longing for those wizards’ hands

 

 

 

 

Waiting for myself
 

I decide that I feel okay and I am warm.
The rain is about to but I am inside.
The couch is soft and I napped.
And because it’s cloudy I don’t have to cover up the skylight.
And I feel okay, this is new.
I have spent a while on the couch napping. Day on day.
And I forget why I lay down, pulled over the blankets, lay in wait.
Wait for something or some many things to pass.
And they must have. Anything could have.
And I would be or I am no wiser. Nor do I care to be.
And my hair has unkempt but there is no one to see.
I feel no compulsion to look in a mirror.
I don’t have to use the toilet but it is right over there. Just in case.
I think about this as I drink water. And how good it is to drink the water.
I feel myself being hydrated and I know it was right to drink the water.
And you know how nice it is to know you have done something right.
And the cell phone keeps on buzzing and it has done that for days.
And soon it will die and later I will die.
I feel so alright I wonder if I died and this is what it’s like.
But I don’t know if dead bodies can drink water.
And I may be living but I wonder softly on the couch about the difference.
I could stay here for the rest of my life. However long if at all.
Nothing asks of me. It is like a dakhma with my skylight right above.
Now the rain falls on the skylight.
The most beautiful age to be was seventeen.
I remember reading poetry before I died. If that is I have.
Even though I am had water and I cannot yet see through my skin.
And the cell phone buzzes.
And maybe tomorrow I will hear a knock at the door.
And I will not open it. I do not need anything outside. This is enough.
Only rise when I need to use the toilet. But it is right over there.
And the knocking will keep on.
And somebody will get the spare key and unlock the door.
And they will come up the stairs and I won’t move.
I will lay there laughing.
Laugh until I pass like whatever passed while I was napping.

 

 

 

 

State of affairs

 

 

 

Adam Zachary is a writer, musician, and editor of the Hart House Review in Toronto, Canada. He has previously published under pseudonyms in various literary journals. This is not a pseudonym.