Laurel Hunt


Or it is winter & she             & I sit in the carport &        icicles fall                  on the hood &
                  she sings to me in French   on the phone though she is right there
she is still right there                                                 or she & I sit in the jungle
                  in the car & papayas fall on the hood &               she sings to me      in French
on the phone though she is still right there       & her voice caramel               her voice benzoin
                                    when there is no more singing she asks me tell me a story
& she means tell me we are (not have) bodies                  I know it I tell her how I went to him
it was dark & humid             & the lampposts heavy & he lifted me over his head
                  held me there yes & I ran     the sheerest flags up the first flagpole
I could find              & she & I got out of the car                 & sat on the hood & ice
fell on our heads & papayas                    on our heads & she had the flu & was ill
                  & when she had finished she listened to             her phone & said
Laurel, how big is a lemon? & I said we are bodies only bodies                       we are just bodies, mostly
                  & she said               how big is a lemon? & I said & she                     still right there
& I & smaller than an orange              I guess, but bigger                than a lime
                  smaller than a breadbox smaller           than a fist smaller than a heart
your heart                though bigger       than the hearts        of certain                  other animals—