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
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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 |
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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.