Begin Someone dreams of fire in a field In a cold house, in the winter, your head is on the table, your mind, busily constructing a machine Something taps at the door, calls you out from the deep reverie of making and unmaking The wood is dark and full of veins lost in its haze, you glimpse a shape through the thick trees of night And hear the distant sound of an engine moving, its pistons and gears, heavy with shudders and sighs How it seems that you’ve always heard it coming, long before it appears, the embodied will of the earth set to flame, a metaled desire The semblance of an unknown name you’ve carried home with you, unwittingly— all night, your body singing In the hallway mirror, something stirs in the corner of your eye and you cannot say what it is Only that it grows like a wildfire in a storm, that it tastes of steam That you would lay every number in the world on end and still, it would not be enough-- the heavens opening wide their spiraling arms And the dark heart within yearning to pull everything back while you stand on the threshold, believing. Previously published in Babbage's Dream (Sundress Publications, 2017). Note: to view this poem as intended, it's best to use a non-mobile device with Chrome. Neil Aitken is the author of Babbage’s Dream (Sundress Publications, 2017) and The Lost Country of Sight (Anhinga Press, 2008), which received the Philip Levine Prize, as well as the poetry chapbook, Leviathan (Hyacinth Girl Press, 2016). A former computer games programmer and a past Kundiman Fellow, he holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of California, Riverside and a PhD in Literature and Creative Writing from the University of Southern California. He is the founding editor of Boxcar Poetry Review, curator of Have Book Will Travel, and editorial board member of Poetry East West. www.neil-aitken.com Other projects: www.boxcarpoetry.com | www.thelitfantastic.com | www.havebookwilltravel.com Comments are closed.
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October 2019
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