When You Shredded the Letters Before You Read Them
Edward Mayes
I could limn this moment but no one would
Hear me limn, or I could unfold the lawn chairs,
All metal and webbed, near the bird feeders
I’m accusing the incensed cats of coveting, and
The red mailbox again letter bomb-less, the bills vs.
The beaks of birds. The rosemary I clipped for
The bean soup, the poem called Put Up or Shut Up
I posted on the fridge, when I said sorry about that,
That meaning this, how I can’t help pronouncing
Thames without wanting to say the th, to say the a
As it really should be said, like the e in they, and no,
Writing is not just on the surface, like how I heard
Someone say “tan your hide,” as if they didn’t know
What century they were living in. What the monks were
Thinking all day copying their illuminated manuscripts,
Although which came first compels me to think which
Came second, the potato or the potentate, or someone
Without any opinions at all about onions, but leeks,
Shallots, scallions, and chives, of course, shall I put all this
In a memorandum called bric-a-brac, learned errors, bricolage?
Edward Mayes’ recent poems are in Harvard Review, Boston Review, Colorado Review, Poetry, Gettysburg Review, Southwest Review, and Mississippi Review. He lives in Durham, North Carolina, and Cortona, Italy, with the writer Frances Mayes.