By Emily Vogel
To love poetry, you must first love nothing.
You must love the cricket caught in the jar,
how triumphant you felt when you captured it,
and how full of remorse you feel afterward,
all the weight of remorse, as you watch it pulsing
on that handful of grass you left it with.
But still, you want to examine
something that breathes, something that cries
when it feels pain, something with a mating call.
Dusk falls and comes to claim us
with the gray veneer of dreaming.
Something passes in your mind: a laundry truck,
an ephemera of fog, a thrown and soaring object,
like a shoe.
The body can be broken, but cannot transcend,
must expire and be rendered dispensable.
We are entertained by our bodies, by the bodies
of others. We are entertained by the cricket,
desire to commune with its small, inconsequential life.
Outside in the world, there is the commerce of poetry,
its imports and exports, its orgasms and funerals.
I know you are listening. Poetry wants to write you.
Outside in the world, people are laboring up useless mountains.
It affords the effort.
In your arms, nobody knows me but you.