Kate Hanson Foster
The Art of Almost
So often the tongue holds
what the mind never earned—
words dressed in thunder,
or language that slips like oil
through a hollow line.
I touched a sentence once—
it bled camphor and copper,
made a sound
like your name underwater.
I taught myself to write
for the utterance, and then
for the second sound in it—the one
hidden inside each vowel like a bird
trembling in the throat of a cat.
What is metaphor if not misdirection?
A beautiful decoy set sail
on a sea of avatars and algorithms.
I said "grief" and meant—whatever
sounds prettier, whatever sparks
the syntax, or lights the cadence like a matchhead.
Forgive me. I am only an echo—
a present wrapped in an old map
and cinched with a necktie—
no, fastened-
with practiced hands that design
but never deliver.
Have I surprised you?
That is the trick, isn't it?
To shimmer just enough,
to gesture toward revelation
without a single reveal.
The figment folds like linen.
The stanza breathes as if it has lungs
full of myth and mystery.
You lean in.
You nod slowly.
You think I’ve said something true.
But I’ve only exhaled the smoke of it—
a lovely ache for the sake
of it—this chandelier
dangling from a cloud.
what the mind never earned—
words dressed in thunder,
or language that slips like oil
through a hollow line.
I touched a sentence once—
it bled camphor and copper,
made a sound
like your name underwater.
I taught myself to write
for the utterance, and then
for the second sound in it—the one
hidden inside each vowel like a bird
trembling in the throat of a cat.
What is metaphor if not misdirection?
A beautiful decoy set sail
on a sea of avatars and algorithms.
I said "grief" and meant—whatever
sounds prettier, whatever sparks
the syntax, or lights the cadence like a matchhead.
Forgive me. I am only an echo—
a present wrapped in an old map
and cinched with a necktie—
no, fastened-
with practiced hands that design
but never deliver.
Have I surprised you?
That is the trick, isn't it?
To shimmer just enough,
to gesture toward revelation
without a single reveal.
The figment folds like linen.
The stanza breathes as if it has lungs
full of myth and mystery.
You lean in.
You nod slowly.
You think I’ve said something true.
But I’ve only exhaled the smoke of it—
a lovely ache for the sake
of it—this chandelier
dangling from a cloud.
--
Kate Hanson Foster's collection of poems, Crow Funeral was published in March 2022 by EastOver Press. She is also the author of Mid Drift, a finalist for the Massachusetts Center for the Book Award. Her writing has appeared in Birmingham Poetry Review, Comstock Review, Harper Palate, Poet Lore, Salamander, Tupelo Quarterly, The Slowdown, and elsewhere. She is the co-host of the poetry podcast Table for Deuce, and co-editor of The Seat along with poet, Michael Schmeltzer. A recipient of the NEA Parent Fellowship through the Vermont Studio Center, she lives and writes in Groton, Massachusetts.
Kate Hanson Foster's collection of poems, Crow Funeral was published in March 2022 by EastOver Press. She is also the author of Mid Drift, a finalist for the Massachusetts Center for the Book Award. Her writing has appeared in Birmingham Poetry Review, Comstock Review, Harper Palate, Poet Lore, Salamander, Tupelo Quarterly, The Slowdown, and elsewhere. She is the co-host of the poetry podcast Table for Deuce, and co-editor of The Seat along with poet, Michael Schmeltzer. A recipient of the NEA Parent Fellowship through the Vermont Studio Center, she lives and writes in Groton, Massachusetts.