Many Poems by David Wojciechowski


from YOURSBESTSINCERELY

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Dear Sarah,

I forgot to bolt down the birds and this morning we have none. I’ll keep trying to hatch them, but with no birds, there are no eggs, just rocks I keep throwing into the frying pan. It’s possible I’m doing this all wrong.

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Elizabeth,

This morning in bed I was looking at your ear thinking how weird it is. When small red-armored legs emerged, your head a conch shell of sorts, it was better. Comfortable.

Kind of like rocking in the jaw-bone of a deep voice that slowly reads you tomorrow’s newspaper, telling you Tomorrow is your lucky working day. I think I’ll rent a boat and a blanket, sleep below a gasoline lamp and nod off sometime after dark.

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Dear Matthew,

In a book I’m reading there’s a story of man’s first spaceward movement. The NASA thinktanks got it into their heads that ants were the key to man’s survival. They made suits out of ants. Helmets out of ants. O2 masks out of ants. And when they shimmied through atmo—those ants began to explode.

Up there, if you squint tight, I bet birds look a lot like dying stars blinking in and out.

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My Hands, Unsewn

Before I got home she made sure the antlers were touching. The chairs had to be just perfectly talking to each other over nothing but what could have once been bees. The rug has been moved. It is red and now waits below the crate full of the once and future bees. All sound is now at throat level and has been caught by a small gold hook. My oceans, my boats—all manner of whales, now drip from shelves. If there had been mirrors, they’d be hanging from their necks.

That night I had a dream. In it I was lying at the mouth of a cave with a flashlight clasped to my chest in one hand. The other hand was busy catching moths.

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Forget your hurt, [this can’t be earth]

The wood workers were just meant to stand in for the other four: the man selling buttons, the one selling toys, the woman selling apples (right there pineapples or bananas or wedding cakes could have stood in for apples) and for the man selling lampshades and balloons.

I stand by, clinkling because I can’t think of what else lightbulbs might say. I’m full of age, carrying a small glass jar, armed with telescopes & fire ladders. Possibly.

Where I’ve just written fire ladders, I mean that in its most literal sense. Fire ladders. Ladders of fire. Of is still of never to be mistaken for on.

Always things being mirror things: day, lake, hallway, dreams—
though, now, I can’t be: fish, bread, forest, and piglets.

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Bio: David Wojciechowski lives and dies in Syracuse, NY. He is the poetry editor at Salt Hill.