Tuesday, March 10, 2009

Three poems by Liz Hall

Three poems
by Liz Hall


Doubt does not suit you. These cautious treat-
ments are not meant
for the streets
where two (as we are) may converge.

fingers palms lips eyes were not fashioned
to be (no, not ever, with lovers)

halted. Therefore, unhinge
for me what you can, what
you will. It's that or

embrace me
with the curves of your question marks,


All This

When you look at me a certain way, the whole world is an
explosion. All the pieces in it are little
kernels popping into big
bright puffs of tinsel and boom.
All this jumping, all this
rattle and hullabaloo:
jolts my every synapse and releases
those chemicals – the kinds that make me
love you.

Love makes the world go 'round, makes the flowers
grow, breaks up the steady
placement of the cosmos, sends balloons hurtling into that
crazy cosmic arrangement.

And all this: (synapses ejaculating, flowers taller and taller,
squirrelly cosmos where attractive people ride in balloons and
so very much more) –

It's all from you, looking at me
a certain way.



This morning, I met a man
who sat proud in his seat at the diner.
Told me we're all sad products of modernity –
buying, selling, time to go.
who's going to slow it all down, he asked.
Who's John Galt, I asked.

At lunch I sat across a man
who slouched over a burger in the cafeteria.
Told me he'd spent 300 dollars
on his daughter's junior prom dress.
Who spends that much on a dress, he asked.
Who the heck is John Galt? I asked.

After work, I drank with a man
who dropped his head on the bar.
Said we've become orphans in the universe,
thanks to our brightest thinkers.
How are we supposed to bridge the rift, I asked.
Right – like I know who John fucking Galt is.

Author bio:

Liz Hall recently earned her bachelor's degree in English literature at the Franciscan University of Steubenville, Ohio. Her fiction has appeared in or is forthcoming in Sub-Lit, DiddleDog, Mud Luscious, and The Battered Suitcase. Liz likes teapots and flea markets.

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