I don't think they'll find the new weaving anywhere finer than truth. —Osip Mandelstam I've tried to sift a truth finer than salt from my mouth. It matters: I get up or I do not. The books can wait, leaves burn themselves these days, and the day begins or it does not. Now wingless, a wasp masquerading as the sun crawls— a harmless razor—across the backlit curtain. No city trembles on the verge of the sea. No stupid bird threatens to dissolve me if I forget my species in the official questionnaire. I could put my ten bureaucrats to their task. The dusting and polishing. There's a point, a mirror for me to enumerate my teeth. Beyond these walls, there's only the snowed-in field, an egg just opened but empty.
From Currency by Paul Otremba. Copyright © 2009 by Paul Otremba. Used by permission of Four Way Books. All rights reserved.
Paul Otremba is the author of two collections of poetry, The Currency (Four Way Books, 2009) and Pax Americana (Four Way Books, 2015). He teaches at Rice University and in the Warren Wilson low-residency MFA program.
Date Published: 2009-01-01
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/weaving