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What I thought was a cat
was a sack of sand.
Someone driving
toward the flood
or where they thought
the flood might go.
That by now
was days ago.
Animals, go home.
Copyright © 2019 by Bradley Paul. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 26, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets.
Grendel appears as a wolf in the kitchen Grendel appears as a shark beneath the dining room floor Grendel appears as a monster named Grendel Might I have some money? asks a man and you turn: is this the monster? Here, says a nun, let's watch TV together I knew and liked your mother Grendel Grendel Grendel you say cowering in the dream of the shark that cowers inside the dream of the wolf Say his name enough and it sits like snow on a chain link fence not so invisible now
I am arguing with an idiot online. He says anybody can write a poem. I say some people are afraid to speak. I say some people are ashamed to speak. If they said the pronoun "I" they would find themselves floating in the black Atlantic and a woman would swim by, completely dry, in a rose chiffon shirt, until the ashamed person says her name and the woman becomes wet and drowns and her face turns to flayed ragged pulp, white in the black water. He says that he'd still write even if someone cut off both his hands. As if it were the hands that make a poem, I say.