Little America
My friend says she is like an empty drawer being pulled out of the earth. I am the long neck of the giraffe coming down to see what she doesn't have. What holds us chained to the same cold river, where we are surprised by the circles we make in the ice? When we talk about the past it is like pushing stones back into the earth. Sometimes she digs her nails into her leather bag to find out where my heart is. The white sleeves of her shirt are bright with waves when I visit. When we lie, we live a little longer— which is unbelievable. If you love someone, the water moves up from the well.
Copyright© 2005 by Jason Shinder. First published in The American Poetry Review, November/December 2005. From Stupid Hope (Graywolf, 2009). Appears with permission of the Literary Estate of Jason Shinder.