Sep 1

Sep 1 Three Poems by Nora Claire Miller

BY NORA CLAIRE MILLER

when telling

It may not be as simple as understanding the blank document.

It may not be as simple as closing in on an argument, when that argument is a dense length of air, and Tuesday is close.

It may not be prudent to show up, overdressed, and face the music with unbearable grace.

It may not be prudent to show up at all.

It may not be helpful to wear orange. It may not be helpful to wear blue. It may not be helpful to try a gas station. It may only be helpful to hold your breath. Notice how there is no I or we.

It may be only helpful. It may only be helpful. The restroom was all out of hand soap. It may only be helpful.

In a room we hang a basket on a lightbulb. In the room of the fluorescent lamp. You can get to anywhere if you count to three. You can get to anywhere if you just finish counting.

But it may not be as simple as all this.

Telling a film star that his face is too cool.

Telling a smart guy that you like his glasses.

Telling anybody you enjoy the website slate.com. It may not be as simple.

It may not be as simple as understanding that the blank document has edges. It may not be as simple as closing in on the darkest hour of the sky at night. It may not be as simple to require votes to count, it may not be as simple to require efficacy in the face of small music and lies, it may not be appropriate to wear a vest at any hour of the night. It may not be useful or appropriate.

It may not be enough to tell lies. It may not be enough to arrive at Wednesday, six hours late, demanding to be let back in. It may not be enough to carry lemons. It may not be enough to hold showers. Tell anybody that you like their website. It may only be helpful.

There was only one day like it, and then the next day came, and then we called everybody mysterious. But the mysterious one was Wednesday. Or what was Thursday. Or was it just because. And you may like it. But it may not be enough.

These are the numbers one through ten:

One two three. Four five six. Seven eight nine ten.

Those were the numbers. They happened and then they didn’t. I could have stopped at any time. I am telling you the truth.

From LULL*

one morning after great pain I lose the ability to speak.
I wake and can only make the cores of words.
something like vowels lodged, lopsided:
elide, eunoia. the noises in me
blister, root. I make a hundred cups of tea.
I make a frame to live inside. I say,

ou a a o eo o ae e a ae e ee ie i u I i a ou oe a ayi
I ae ee ae i y ui ie. I o’ a o e a ou a e o e o ou
I a’ ii i. I a eoye y i. I a ie ee ii y ie. I a ooy uy.
I oe ou a a oy e ee e.
say, oei a aee o e a i o' o o o a aou i.
I a ae, I say.

that night, I have visions of gaseous metals
the shape of someone ringing my doorbell
I know all of the symbols for distress
the doctor tells me, cough. I ao ou.
I try again. I anno ou.
someone hands me a crayon. I draw pain,
I draw a light switch. turn the light switch off.
u e i i o.

at the apartment of any lover, addresses
that were and will again be oceans, I have
visions: blue and gold tea-kettles, hair,
lozenges, spurious movements, skin tags,
boons of earth. sex I do not say, because to fear
apocalypse is lazy, I do not say, palpitation to heart
as flames to the earth, I do not say belongs to us.

I wake in a hammerhot hallway,
the window dubbed with paint.
a pan of water on the vent, aqueduct
for firmament. something
shakes loose. the floor is not.
I try to find a doorway. at the window
is a bulldozer named LULL. I ask her
why humans invented tragedy. she says,

- .... . -.--     .... .- ...- .     .- -.-. --.- ..- .. .-. . -..     -. . .--
.- -. -..     .- .-.. -- --- ... -     ..- -. .-.. .. -- .. - . -..
.--. --- .-- . .-. ...     - .... . -.--     -.-. .- -.
-.-. --- -- -- .- -. -..     - .... .     - .... ..- -. -.. . .-. ...     --- ..-.
.... . .- ...- . -.     -- .. -- .. -.-.     - .... .
. .- .-. - .... --.- ..- .- -.- .     .- -. -..     . ...- . -.
-- --- -.-. -.-     - .... .     .. -. ...- .. ... .. -... .-.. .
.-- --- .-. .-.. -..     .-- .. - ....     .. - ...     --- .-- -.
... .... .- -.. --- .-- ...

I can say things via light switch
even though this is the wrong way.
still, love is a box fan who. like a spinning
hose I am still. I am only put. the rain is
four dots, who wrote the rain, I mean the letter h
is almost an ellipse. I do not say, e ee “h”.
bad things happen to people on purpose.

about numbers

I visit the grocery at sundown
the evening a form of plastic
a dangerous mint, rubescent
in my mouth, labels each
of my teeth with a number outside
the grocery the sky a syntax like a song
called “red rubber ball”
so tooth number thirteen
(upper lateral incisor) says repeatedly,
“I have big shoes to fill,”
to which tooth number six
(lower second molar, right) replies,
“the worst is over now,”
to which the sun abruptly
switches directions in the sky
the worst being only a number, maybe