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On the Four Train to the Ends of the Moon by Rob Cook

October 1, 2012 Contributed By: Rob Cook

In the boy’s hand
the cell phone sleeping,
a tiny animal.

He found it
this morning curled
inside his coat pocket.

When he places it
against his ear, does
the animal plant its eggs?

When the boy presses it
deeper, can he hear
its brain trembling?

Can he hear the man named
Arturo sitting beside him
with the same animal?

The man speaks into
its hide about his own
thinning and incoherence:

I scared away most of that
que paso critter, and I swear
to my dead father making the dirt grin,

I swear I only hated once,
but for my next relationship
I’ll hire a carnation.

The man yells
into the animal’s mouth,
and then its eyes.

The boy shares his grammar school
secrets, his fingers tracing
the lights where the animal listens.

Watch how he pets it.
Watch how he soothes it for the day
it will be boiled and cut open as meat.

Return to table of contents for Issue 6 Fall 2012

Filed Under: Poetry Posted On: October 1, 2012

Further Reading

Android and an Anecdote by Grzegorz Wróblewski
(Translated from Polish by Peter Burzynski)

Mr. Z realized what he was doing: —It sufficed that the program be changed or that only incorrect programming be added—Mr. Z was comforted by the unprogrammed android. Mr. Z stroked it until it turned pink, until it had something that resembled a shell of a human face. —They filled me with unnecessary information and […]

The Shape of Things by George Moore

Look at this painting squared by light of a certain afternoon hour, hung on the wall out of reach of the dead, who were to blame. See the red roofs and the boxes, spared by his new infinity? Cezanne lost his sight to oceans, repetition, the impossible wave. The ocean was an idea mounting the […]

Dad Watches Us Walk to School, Watertown, 1959
by Cindy Veach

It’s pouring. Mom’s pregnant again, on bed rest. Kindergarten and first grade. We’re allowed to walk to school. Alone.   He says he watched us from the window. Leave the house in our yellow slickers. Cross the street. Turn right. Holding hands.   He’s brought this memory up so many times— My big brother. Me. […]

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