Sam Rasnake
MacGuffin
I'm afraid I've been guilty of leading you down the garden path−
or should it be up? I never can remember.
− The 39 Steps
Here, in the land of the somewhat dead are all
the answers you could ever wish for. A dream,
a breath in whisper, the wet hillside under heavy
skies that go on forever or seem to. And then
there’s the well with its coins polished by cold
and time that scatter the bottom − their own stories,
each one a gift from an uneasy hand, from fingers
too wrenched with letting go. And by the way,
isn’t it remarkable how a little sex sells − just
the thought of what could be might be enough −
eyes over the fence, behind the curtain, across
a table, the long room waiting. But back to threads
of narrative: he, obviously mistaken for someone,
for something he’s not, and she, unwilling or thought
to be a perfect cool to the moment, always find
a truth, but it’s in what they could make, and not
what they do make − Nothing could be less plausible,
but here it is again and again − we know it by
heart. In fact, we are its heart − thump thump,
thump thump. Someone’s at the door, of course,
or it’s the phone, an e−mail that finds you − and
we wake up. A new morning, new winter of disbelief
made unforgettable by ice and rain on a day when you
only ache for covers, for darkness, for comfy clothes,
for what’s missing, for what must always be so.
Sam Rasnake’s works, receiving five nominations for the Pushcart Prize, have appeared in The Southern Poetry Anthology, Best of the Web 2009, Wigleaf, OCHO, MiPOesias Companion 2012, Big Muddy, Literal Latté, Poets / Artists, LUMMOX 2012,BOXCAR Poetry Review Anthology 2, and Dogzplot Flash Fiction 2011. His latest poetry collection, Cinéma Vérité, is forthcoming (Autumn 2013) from A-Minor Press.
Return to July 2013 Edition
I'm afraid I've been guilty of leading you down the garden path−
or should it be up? I never can remember.
− The 39 Steps
Here, in the land of the somewhat dead are all
the answers you could ever wish for. A dream,
a breath in whisper, the wet hillside under heavy
skies that go on forever or seem to. And then
there’s the well with its coins polished by cold
and time that scatter the bottom − their own stories,
each one a gift from an uneasy hand, from fingers
too wrenched with letting go. And by the way,
isn’t it remarkable how a little sex sells − just
the thought of what could be might be enough −
eyes over the fence, behind the curtain, across
a table, the long room waiting. But back to threads
of narrative: he, obviously mistaken for someone,
for something he’s not, and she, unwilling or thought
to be a perfect cool to the moment, always find
a truth, but it’s in what they could make, and not
what they do make − Nothing could be less plausible,
but here it is again and again − we know it by
heart. In fact, we are its heart − thump thump,
thump thump. Someone’s at the door, of course,
or it’s the phone, an e−mail that finds you − and
we wake up. A new morning, new winter of disbelief
made unforgettable by ice and rain on a day when you
only ache for covers, for darkness, for comfy clothes,
for what’s missing, for what must always be so.
Sam Rasnake’s works, receiving five nominations for the Pushcart Prize, have appeared in The Southern Poetry Anthology, Best of the Web 2009, Wigleaf, OCHO, MiPOesias Companion 2012, Big Muddy, Literal Latté, Poets / Artists, LUMMOX 2012,BOXCAR Poetry Review Anthology 2, and Dogzplot Flash Fiction 2011. His latest poetry collection, Cinéma Vérité, is forthcoming (Autumn 2013) from A-Minor Press.
Return to July 2013 Edition