Joshua CoreyOn Our Imperfect Knowledge of Void
History is not continuous--the divorce must occur-- there was no moment of charity. I stepped out of granite into the rainwashed alley. I rode the pure bus into the angry buzz of sun. When did the desert become horizon? When did this roof open like a cabaret, and out come kicking your small brilliant foot? All around me lurks the humid air, the high skirts of dusk, dusk's improbably long legs. There's a ferret loose in my chest--he smokes constantly-- he drums his fingers on cheap felt. I signed the papers. You want me to say I felt free. What I felt was like skating on a frozen lake that giant bass turn slowly. My head has doubled in size, my tongue's becoming a silver dollar. You want me to keep saying how at last I discovered passion, how I moved into a trailer, drank beer and sang in Spanish every night, all night. How tears cauterize the face where desire is received. The divorce did not come through, I still live in the great house. I take a stroll in evening wear by the banks of my lagoon. In my mind you're a plummeting breast--documented olive trees--bark of the hooked blind bass-- the thinnest wrists of coal. Please accept this invitation, please sit in that overplush chair. I speak to you from chlorine: I say it's good to be alone.
Joshua Corey's first book, Selah (Barrow Street Press, 2003), was selected by Robert Pinsky as the winner of the Barrow Street Press Book Contest.
