poetry
EDITED BY Phillip X Levine
The Secrets of the Universe
Fish Guys
Poets don’t make good outfielders.
I stole a glass at Fremont Brewery but it’s patroned by Jeff Bezos so I didn’t feel that bad.
In little league I would hold the Borderlands of the game like A dandelion weed that the groundskeepers missed, Ready to blow away with any errant gust of wind.
In the car I treegazed, glass-eyed. My friends said let’s buy salmon, from somewhere Not Pike Place.
One time, Charlie and I wandered away completely, Pursuing some ineffable archaeology in the next park over Before my father corralled us back like Loose hens in the barnyard.
And in the corner of Not Pike Place, a shop that barely fit its line, a man impersonated Elvis.
Poets are often lost because they see Many worlds latticed together in quantum superposition Like Hart Crane, with his lone jeweled eye, A “glowing orb of praise,”
We had decisions to make— which fish and how much fish— while Elvis sang Sweet Caroline too loud for us to hear each other.
Fixated on some obscure heaven He struggled to recollect to his hell on earth.
We sang along when he pointed to us, interrupting our deliberation, so we could emulate the horn section, a little miffed when we remembered
Or PK Dick, who saw a double exposure of 70 AD Rome over 1974 Santa Ana Because the Empire never ended.
that Elvis never sang that song. We grilled the fish on cedar planks because that’s authentic.
Poets are the schizoid private investigators Out to expose the many nefarious crimes Of the Demiurge.
—Tim Knapp
Filling overstuffed filing cabinets with documents and evidence Going all the way back to when the Archons first created History And dressed it up as Time. How do you find the secrets of the universe? Go down to the River and listen To the 10-dimensional symphony playing On unimaginably tiny loops of string That a consciousness like ours emerges from As so many varied leitmotifs. The sound of riverwater called forth by gravity, Like quiet thunder, Is the growl of a faraway god And lost words, Aching to be heard. —Quentin Mahoney
Egg Sandwich He handed me a sandwich, small and loosely wrapped like a truffle, twisted top and silver foil glinting. I like perfect toast—soft and crispy, with a few chosen edges charred. Weakened by butter, inspired by pepper, and comforted by the fluff and fold of egg.
Was it the savory confection that nourished me really? Or was it the unguarded tear in the eye of this stranger not so strange, a crumb of connection leavened by human love. Full submission guidelines: Chronogram.com/submissions 56 POETRY CHRONOGRAM 1/22
—Anna Keville Joyce
With Mountains Like These and not a breath in sight, I am never really alone. I pulled over and turned the ignition, leaving the car stranded on the shoulder. With crisp leaves, breathing in the breeze, I am not alone. I have the company I wish to keep. No more, no less. The road behind me disappearing, the trail ahead widening, no longer such a steep climb. I feel my least lonely when I am most alone. —Taylor Steinberg
But Essence But essence often rises to the lips— And this I find impossible to miss —Christopher Porpora