No Need to Argue Anymore

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A piece of you is turning towards the sun.

One, two, three, four— we declare a thumb war.

 

Lady Gwendolen Cecil used up her old evening dresses by gardening in them.

Cartographers call the blank spaces on maps “sleeping beauties.”

How to live.

Kalashnikov said, I wish I had invented a lawnmower.

Even the sun looks wrong.

These are early days.

 

Do we feel light if we make space inside us?

People only speak to get something.

Nothing changes you.

 

Is truth, water corrupted by lead?

I keep losing—

Imagine the Atlantic drained away.

Whatever is wet escapes burning.

 

Life is to be approached with waltzing moves towards the place we experience disorder.

So will you stand next to me for the next twenty minutes?

I keep losing—

I need my luck turned around.

 

And then there’re the animals pictured on the walls in Lascaux, the cracks of your own heart.

The holding back—a refraction of light from oil slick, soap bubbles, fish scales.

Fragments of harpoons still found in the desert.

The rustle of things migrating to the brain.

Cairns guiding travelers.

The puddles.

Fani Papageorgiou’s books are When You Said No, Did You Mean Never? and Not So Ill With You and Me.

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Disnae Matter

Irvine Welsh


Ah wis it that Disneyland in Florida, ken. Took hur n the bairn. Wi me gittin peyed oaf fi Ferranti’s, ah thoat its. . .

stories

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