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.
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
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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
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