KD
  • Home
  • About
    • Contributors List
    • KD's Blog
    • Award Nominations
    • Support
    • Contact
  • Press
  • Issues
    • Issue 49
    • Issue 48
    • Issue 47
    • Issue 46
    • Issue 45
    • Issue 44
    • Issue 43
    • Issue 42
    • Issue 41
    • Issue 40
    • Issue 39
    • Issue 38
    • Issue 37
    • Issue 36
    • Issue 35
    • Issue 34
    • Issue 33
    • Issue 32
    • Issue 31
    • Issue 30
    • Issue 29
    • Issue 28
    • Issue 27
    • Issue 26
    • Issue 25
    • Issue 24
    • Issue 23
    • Issue 22
    • Issue 21
    • Issue 20
    • Issue 19
    • Issue 18
    • Serenity
    • Issue 17
    • The Audio Room
    • Issue 16
    • Issue 15
    • Issue 14
    • Play It Again
    • Issue 13
    • Issue 12
    • Issue 11
    • Issue 10
    • Issue 9
    • Issue 8
    • Issue 7
    • Issue 6
    • Hand to Mouth
    • Issue 5
    • Issue 4
    • Issue 3
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 1
  • Submissions

Ann Eleven

Someone Will Always Claim the Ear of God

​If I had a thousand acorns I’d have
a thousand acorns and only the idea
of a forest. Did you know when
I loved you? Or was it like someone
moving about in the next room
while your book is open, your eyes
fixed on the page? I once put
my hand in your hand. I was
thinking of summer. I also was
thinking of winter. I’m like that.
Each thing contains its own
and opposite. You said tell me
about yourself and I told you,
there have been many accidents
and I have evaded their consequence
through no particular virtue or expertise
or even quick thinking. In some other part
of the world the cavernous shadows
of ice float the frozen sea. If I lived
there I’d tell you different things
about summer, the dark day,
the glaciate creak of ice
strained under its burden,
the sun as a high cold fire
that sinks to be swallowed
by ocean. The kind of tired I know
puts its head in ovens. I speak
from beneath its inherited old
umbrella. If I had the idea of forests
I’d also have seasons. I won’t tell you
what happened in other countries
or who is dead. What’s the coldest
thing you ever held in your mouth?
I was swimming. I found on my
tongue I carried a coin. I coughed
it up. They caught but did not
cut me open. They did not need
to cut me open! I put out my tongue,
all sullen, paid up for the world.

Biography

Picture
​Ann Eleven (they, their) is a queer, non-binary writer and librarian who lives in Chicago. They have one cat and are always in search of the next good sandwich. Their homes online are http://www.junkyardattic.com and Twitter: @junkyardattic
back to issue
​Next Poem →
Picture
ISSN 2639-426X
© COPYRIGHT 2018-2021. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
  • Home
  • About
    • Contributors List
    • KD's Blog
    • Award Nominations
    • Support
    • Contact
  • Press
  • Issues
    • Issue 49
    • Issue 48
    • Issue 47
    • Issue 46
    • Issue 45
    • Issue 44
    • Issue 43
    • Issue 42
    • Issue 41
    • Issue 40
    • Issue 39
    • Issue 38
    • Issue 37
    • Issue 36
    • Issue 35
    • Issue 34
    • Issue 33
    • Issue 32
    • Issue 31
    • Issue 30
    • Issue 29
    • Issue 28
    • Issue 27
    • Issue 26
    • Issue 25
    • Issue 24
    • Issue 23
    • Issue 22
    • Issue 21
    • Issue 20
    • Issue 19
    • Issue 18
    • Serenity
    • Issue 17
    • The Audio Room
    • Issue 16
    • Issue 15
    • Issue 14
    • Play It Again
    • Issue 13
    • Issue 12
    • Issue 11
    • Issue 10
    • Issue 9
    • Issue 8
    • Issue 7
    • Issue 6
    • Hand to Mouth
    • Issue 5
    • Issue 4
    • Issue 3
    • Issue 2
    • Issue 1
  • Submissions