The rain today looks more naked
than usual. It bastes the treetops
with id. I dreamt I walked a horse

beside the railroad. The creature shrank
with every step until I stuffed it
into my largest coat pocket.

At home I caught you dissecting
an ordinary garter snake.
Split lengthwise, it resembled

a stretch of the Dead Sea scrolls.
Out of my pocket, the horse
expanded to its natural size

and with its famous Scottish accent
thanked me for the ride. The morning
negates that drama, though.

You hustle the cats to breakfast
and rattle dishes in the sink
to alert me that a new world

has risen from the Atlantic
to replace the dream-world I lived
with ample faith. How can I solve

the simple needs of a landscape
I inhabit barely long enough
to learn how to read its idioms?

The rain kneads the sky till it’s soft
and fluffy. The treetops weep with joy.
You order me to eat breakfast

as soon as the cats have finished,
but I want to run out naked
in the rain, naked as the rain,

and although we have no neighbors
to see, my ripening expression
would surely explain everything.

__________________________________

William Doreski teaches at Keene State College in New Hampshire. His most recent collection of poetry is Waiting for the Angel (2009). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors.  His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in many journals, including Massachusetts Review, Notre Dame Review, The Alembic, New England Quarterly, Harvard Review, Modern Philology, Antioch Review, Natural Bridge.

Sun In The Morn, Writers Be Warned

Sunrise gets more praise than it should. If we’re awake for a sunrise it means one of several things has happened: we’ve had a brush with alcohol poisoning, insomnia, or have just an ungodly reason for waking up earlier than normal. No, instead of filling us with warmth and optimism, sunrise reminds us of a short story we penned way back in the oft-referred to “College Days.” The story involved a female protagonist who struggled with sleeplessness — a remarkable conceit, we know. But we were 19 and battling insomnia ourselves, if that’s any excuse. Anyway, two years later a young woman we were dating found the story (the unconscionable invasion of privacy into one’s scribble pad does not even warrant discussion here). Somehow this young woman, two years after the story had been written, found reason to believe it was about her. To this day, we have no idea why. She certainly didn’t subscribe to the “author is dead” school of criticism, follow? No? Well, Heteroglossia, Bahktin, what is there to do? Visit the Guardian, of course, which is listing fiction writing’s fundamental laws. From there we head to an autopsy on the death of film criticism, and then on to the death of The Exile. But life springs eternal, right? At least it evolves, as long as culture fosters it forward. The Jewish Review of Books is searching for a Hebrew Narnia, and Sam Lipsyte does interviews via IM. It’s a new morning, insomniacs. — Andrew Geer

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