Emily Pettit (Northampton, Massachusettes, USA): Two Poems

HOW TO START A FIRE WITHOUT STICKS

Get up. Get up and pretend your head isn't full
of tiny broken sticks. It will be worth it to walk
through the door such a complicated mess,
crazy to such purpose. One way to torture a person
who is sleep deprived is to pretend the house is on
fire. Look very serious and say Fire! Fire! Fire!
Look very serious and say Water! Water! Water!
Look very serious and say You built a better body
of water. Yes you did. Where did you find such a
stunning embankment? Pretend you put out the fire
with the better body of water. Pretend you are
a medium to large marine mammal. I will be
a fly on the wall dressed as a person, a person who
has complicated ideas about what constitutes a wall.
No doubt I'm a little faded, dejected, incognito,
noncommittal. I only do practical things.

A BOOT AND A SCORPION

I can't imagine what you must think of me.
Or perhaps I can. Perhaps as a pomegranate.
Or as a sparrow, but a kind that cannot fly.
A fog that is made up. A crest or ridge.
For example, the border of a bone.
To be still to come. A boot and a scorpion,
they meet in the shower. An outline
of the number eight, formed with two loops
and one continuous line. Yesterday's noon
we all forgot. Collapsing into surf
when close to shore or hitting rocks.
I'm awake, I think. Maybe as a bookend.
I've thought about you in many ways
neither grammatical or while wearing gloves.

© Emily Pettit 2009