The Origin of Yet Has Been an Object of Endless Speculation*

p
o
e
m
s

One day the rain may make us blind—mollusk shells

that walk about without the flesh, without a lens.

Hard ribbed curvatures looking to find hands

under the very sameness of the sky we daily drown in.

The uncondemned houses never reach this far.

We can almost taste the seaweed on the sea.

You beat and beat a little foot. Everything

is gentle as after a hurricane. O eyes that look into

the distance and know what’s coming!

Some days we’re lion-toothed, some we’re not even rabid.

We flutter like finches that crack on the tongue.

Or we imitate beetle legs without the beetle body,

walking in rhythm along the window, out a screen hole

with a pure insistent thrum. Come shelter

under this apple in flower, its pink fingers opening.

How did it learn to be so kind? For moments,

we’re out of danger, afraid of nothing—when

a rain that had never rained begins to rain.

 

* Anatoly Liberman

Paul Nemser is the author of Taurus (2013), which won the New American Poetry Prize, and Tales of the Tetragrammaton (2014), a chapbook of prose poems.

You Might Also Enjoy

from Aurora

Thomas Geoghegan

Chicago, 1989. A strike that has been going on for some time has finally collapsed. The union is facing ruination and the company. . .

stories

How Are You?

Steve Healey


Identity is part of the problem, although we have ways of verifying certain persons, putting our finger on them.

stories

Outside My Window

Rick Perlstein

Outside my window: a gray day in Ann Arbor. Two cops—in shorts, on bicycles—glide by. A roiling sea of blue and gold middle-aged. . .

stories

Baffler Newsletter

New email subscribers receive a digital copy of our current issue.

Further Reading

Heads Up: We recently updated our privacy policy to clarify how and why we collect personal data. By using our site, you acknowledge that you have read and understand this policy.