Issue 13: Oscar Oswald
from There There
Our tongues could find no debris to call
a thing, so we went our separate ways.
Your species breeds, while you become a word
for them to whisper face to face, between
the sheets. A household item, like a ravine
of picketeers. We bravely spread old news
in riddles, mucking how it is: whistle-
blowers, stolen docs, murders dropped
in our survival. Defecting soon: sell stock
to parody. We’ll hear chromatic hens
when we join the call to march to war.
The war, the war we chose, as in your myth
the past belittles us, makes genesis
a simple campus tour. In times like these,
raven, get going. These pixels bear a prayer,
expensive air, cluttering our flesh
by doctrine of suggestion with a sword.
Assembled above water, a fruit between
the breasts, working less, back to us
from choirs. We ratio the past, a maple
bough in concrete, property of ounces.
Then, mistakenly, thirty minutes
or not. Rain the blessing. The company
is closely kept, circumambient
as petroglyphs, our war we won. Old
soul and soldier’s cash. We twinkle mood’s
mood indigo, getting whole, getting
prose in every throat. Accepted skin
of lobbies. Then roses, tutoring the heart
in praise, ballooning an affirmative
tip. Rehearsal intersects the wind
with human kin, our limbs collapsing
thought. Our first election? Up a hill:
infinity, our climate climbing God.
A sample of divergences, we leave
into fertilities, reciprocate
the nation. Priceless ruin endlessly.
Rationed, promontory receptacle
for blessings, our salutary weft
declassifying everything of us.
Concomitant maroon. A saloon
of history, kaleidoscopic nod
to the affirmative, laughter-grace.
Pierced between applause, absolute
adventure and final personhood,
in my excitement, my alternatives
exponentially reduce to being
born. I: recital mutely meadowed.
Onwards, on the inside, a violin
of rubber, green leaves in relief
foregrounding soul, impotently brief.
A baby blew a kiss to my lips.
Doorbell on the inside of a hive.
Blink with me, like Jonah and the Whale
with each other. Bride to be, be loved.
Bring the milk, the sun is fielding limes.
You wore me out of handing you the curb.
Ace of elms in our cards, we doubt
nonetheless. A country falls apart.
Tomato berry, grow inside this horse.
Sing as if the note were cherry, crudely.
A barrel holds the night and day apart.
Our minds admit the sun. Their time, times one.
Hope ahead, and lead us where to go.
Oscar Oswald earned an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Nevada Las Vegas in 2012. He currently teaches English Composition in Portland, Oregon, and is an intern at the contemporary arts organization Yale Union. He is also an Assistant Editor for Noemi Press. His poetry can be found in new or forthcoming editions of The Colorado Review, Gobbet, Lana Turner, Tammy, Volt, Weekday, and Word For/Word.
