Three Poems by Emily Vogel

For Lisa Time is a gallery of women dancing, swinging scarves and creating the illusion of rainbows. I am unconcerned with time-because I asked you in such a miscellaneous way if you wanted the scarf, and you said no it’s not my thing-so I said now I know a thing that is not your thing is also not my thing either. The mail truck went up the road, back down, and back up, and finally stopped at the mailbox. There is a miscellaneous way that some garbage is on the kitchen counter. I said I was unconcerned with time because I stood and watched a small sparrow at the feeder earlier today-just watching its knife-like beak nibble at the seeds. I don’t know how long I stood there. Occurrences don’t need flashy Marquis for me. Just a wild moment where hope is that thing.

My new occupation is to bring the light. I will bring it into your kitchen with a silly dance in the morning, while the coffee is brewing, place it into your pantry with all the other sundry coffee mugs. I will be singing Nancy Sinatra. I will fill your bird feeder with the light of seeds, which bring the birds so there are creatures to talk to while you do the dishes. I will mow the lawn with light, listen to the sound of water all night, and tomorrow will have all sorts of similarities to today, and yesterday, I mean just for now- not like when we went to the teahouse or the disco bar in a different Universe, before aliens were the raison d’etre. Yeah, and I think there was a really cool shoe outlet then too, where we went each September before the 1st day of school. I know what you’re going to say next: Yes, of course, one year I got the penny loafers- and two pennies to insert into the slot for each shoe.

She was the breath of a palm tree beside me on her couch. All the intoxication of the sea embodied in a woman. I was looking at her feet, and I was looking at my feet. She was reading from a book about Spirit Animals. My loins began to swirl like an eddying. When she got to the word surreptitious, she leaned over and signaled for the definition. I whispered secret, and she continued to read. Because a woman had been gazing into a mirror the night before, and said she saw the arms of an octopus wrapping all around her body, and all we needed was an explanation. Now, in secret dreams, she visits me, wraps her arms around me, and the watery light splashes from above us. And I can see her squinted eyes-as though they were oceans raging-that I could heave into-and mad like a poet-get pulled away by the undertow.