by William Orem
O my girl, you can’t be sure.
It could be just eruptive. What’s in this cool manila may
contain the spunk of Mt. Vesuvius , the hook
and thump of Tyson, with more teeth.
There may be wizardry in here
could turn your brain to curds
rend your hohum day beyond
repair;
one word uniquely forged
or unexpected image sprung
upon you like a thousand thrashing adders.
Or perhaps here’s gentler stuff,
some quiet note.
Perhaps
to look in here
you’d balk at simple 3:15
falling cleanly through the afternoon
and resting as it does
upon a yellow desk
beneath a young girl’s hand
so perfect in its shape.
I mean
this light here,
resting on this very desk; I mean
your simple
outstretched hand.
William Orem's first collection of stories, Zombi, You My Love, won the GLCA New Writers Award, previously given to Sherman Alexie, Alice Munro, Louise Erdrich, and Richard Ford. His collection Across the River won the Texas Review Novella Prize and is being published this summer. Other stories and poems of his have appeared in over 100 publications, including The Princeton Arts Review, Alaska Quarterly Review, Sou'Wester and The New Formalist, and he has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize in both genres. His plays have been performed in Miami, Ft. Lauderdale, Louisville, Buffalo and Boston; currently he is Writer-in-Residence at Emerson College.
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