Joanna Fuhrman, p.2



A dead or sleeping bird dangles
from a tree. I can read my fortune based
on the direction it hangs: north for love,
east for money. The milkmaiding of the harp
softens the blow to deem it no knock at all.
Hear me Hear me I whisper into my pillow.
I just wanted to promise someone something
or other—not the excess of the post-Nixon-era brain,
but a nice little square: a quasi-oceanic flesh module.


We take showers in different apartments
while it rains outside. The unbridled riddle
of eagle season gives our cells a new lease.
If you were here, you’d laugh at me
for trying to siphon the last drop of beauty
from space, as if I could create a new
idea of space, separate from our need
to live in it and think we know it.
The top of a radish rots in a puddle.
Nothing is ever just sad.