Emma Furman

Strange Loop

I.
Just the odd car. Just the odd car driving along the waterfront.
It’s ridiculous getting up so early.
It’s perverse, the distance at which I stand from life.
Now you’re really on the ropes. Not merely a pose.

Let’s say the wine looks splendid in the glass.
Let’s say there is a man holding the glass. The man is you.
We love that he is distant, unreasonable, special,
walking in the hotel’s hallway maze.

Someone has rearranged the furniture while we were asleep,
but all we have for proof is this deep feeling. Off-camera, a bowl
of water and my own dark jacket hanging its head on a hook.

The fire burns in its place in the wall.
I’ll chase you till you  take wing. Okay, we can start here.
Isolate precisely what leaves a mark on you,
the abject human being, just falling into his white bed.

II.
Someone has rearranged
the furniture while we were asleep.
The man is you. The abject human being.
Just the odd car. The distance at which
I stand from life. It’s ridiculous, and all we have for proof
is this deep feeling. Walking in the hotel’s
hallway maze is not merely a pose. You are
really walking, you are really falling into
his white bed. Off-camera, just the odd car driving along
the waterfront. Getting up this early, the man is you,

my own dark jacket hanging its head
on a hook. The wine looks splendid in the glass
before it falls, not merely a pose. Okay, we can
start here, with the bowl of water and the proof
is the deep feeling. Isolate precisely till you

take wing. There is a man holding what leaves
a mark on you, a fire that burns in its place. Now you’re
really distant, unreasonable, special. Now we really love you,
and give perverse chase, into the wall.
​
III.
My own dark jacket is a hallway maze. This deep feeling looks splendid in a glass, and each fire burns in its place. Someone has re arranged his white bed, and the man is perversely you. Isolate precisely the marks on you, what left its head hanging on a hook in you. All that wine is not merely a pose. The hotel furniture oddly along the waterfront. The car, and then the human being. There is a distant man, special, abject, taking wing into the bowl of water. Getting up, I’ll chase you off-camera, we will really love you, okay, we can start here, what leaves you on the ropes is ridiculous, and falling from life into a piece of proof, an early pose. 

---

(Re)cognition

​my hunger’s home

take it to the hole

You don’t know

what I crawl towards:

locked door

piano bench

every where

I’ve been touched

by no one

that merits a lie

the white keys don’t listen the chess

pieces don’t listen

​the story is boring

a hole so deep

that I can’t look up

to see how far down

I am now

Unfamiliar blood
 
runs through me

and the drumming

from the radio sets in

as someone placed me

in the back seat

wet in my ruined underwear.
​
that touch won’t listen

so I dig, hunt, bury,

lick the residue

on my fingers

still the unplayed song

keeps ringing on 

​
keeps ringing on

still the unplayed song

from my fingers

lick the residue

dig, hunt, bury

that touch won’t listen

wet in my ruined underwear

in the backseat

but someone placed me

in the radio

and the drumming

runs through me

unfamiliar blood

I am now

to see how far down

that I can’t look up

a hole so deep

the story is boring 

the chess pieces don’t listen

the white keys don’t listen

that merits a lie

not no one

I’ve been touched

every where

piano bench

the locked door

what I crawl towards:

​you don’t know

take it to the hole

my hunger’s home 

--
Emma Furman is a poet living in Evanston, Illinois. She earned an MFA from the University of Alabama, and has been published in American Chordata and Breadcrumbs Magazine, among others. She teaches community courses at the Newberry Library in Chicago. She is glad you made it here.