HA&L magazine issue fifteen.2

Two Texts • by Kim Fahner • 1

 

Poetry


by Kim Fahner



Code

The splinter in my foot is fashioned from glass, broken sharply off of something that has fallen and shattered on the kitchen floor. A glass, or a world. It wedges itself into the bottom of my sole.

The sun outside splits the front yard into a nautical marine signal flag. The sky plays tricks on my eyes, and the lawn signals my thoughts in code, only to be deciphered—much later—by the dandelions in early May.

I chant the code, jot down the words on scrap paper:

            Yankee Tango Oscar Delta Echo Golf Juliet Tango
            Golf India Golf Kilo Mike


I drag an anchor
                                                                    Keep clear
Man overboard
I maneuver with difficulty
I alter my course to starboard
                                                                                             I require a pilot
I am on fire with dangerous cargo
                                                                    Keep clear
                                                                                             I require a pilot
I shift my course to port
                                                                                             I require a pilot
I wish to communicate with you
My vessel is stopped

I sit on the floor, extract tiny, slivered bits of glass, watch the blood river itself into a map of the arch, the ball, the open palm of my foot.




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[Distillate © HA&L + Kim Fahner {from the Greek bios} -- the course of a life.]

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