Two Poems by Eric Lindley

Graphite drawings of your injured son. Graphite drawings of cats. Graphite drawings of pencils from the wrong angle. Graphite drawings of paper. Graphite drawings of your friends kissing you. Graphite drawings of animals hugging. Graphite drawings of ways that money can fold. Graphite drawings of men ignoring one another. Graphite drawings of women ignoring one another.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………

That is, come to be afraid—where fear may more be the working-up-of-love for the imagination—I don’t like opening the door to your rooms any more, dear fleck of spit on a notebook, dear voice through the walls. I will never send this letter because your names keep changing, or you blip across the world and the husk-eating-Life, with whom I love and play board games, bends at the small and plunges milkward.

I’ve hated it, each time I saved you from drowning. I’m sorry—I just always planned to kill myself and clog the drain with younger hair than now seems right.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Eric Lindley Eric Lindley

Eric Lindley smears organized sound, language, objects, performance, and academic detritus against the surface of the world, with the grace and efficiency of a flipped tortoise—sometimes as the band "Careful." His work is informed by physics, linguistics, and cognition, in the way that swimming is informed by the need to breathe. Photo by CJ Huang.

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