Double Sonnet Ending in New Testament

This poem is meant to have the make and model

of a vehicle in it, include a food I dislike, a musical

instrument. He gave up the cello. There were multiple

mandolins on his worktable. An item that is broken

beyond repair? My body. That’s easy. This & this

& this. A love note that falls into the wrong hands?

Every poem I have ever written. Please stop posting

your thumbs-up sonogram pictures. I don’t care

if you’re 43. If you’re an exception or a miracle or

whatever you are. A bird of prey. His son was learning

to be a falconer. Are these like vultures? I’m not sure.

An item of lost clothing—this doesn’t happen often

now that I’m married. Remember those bras

that went missing in apartments, knapsacks, cars?

 

Bless that time: fear of conception. Holy ruckery

& whiskey & some guy. I drive the highway

in my Honda Civic to the phlebotomist, try to arrive

early to avoid the trainee who always leaves

the bloodless needle halfway in my arm, then

calls for help to the other woman who looks like

a former heroin addict or the Mennonite; both can

deftly navigate my scarred veins. Falcons are

the fastest moving creatures on earth. Your baby

this week is the size of a poppy seed, a sweet pea,

a black olive. I hate olives. In the lab, they play

Spirit FM & don’t know anything about me. The DJ

croons, ‘I am the vine & you are the branches. Those

who remain in me, & I in them, will bear much fruit.

 

 

 

Erika Meitner is the author of four books of poems—most recently, Copia (BOA Editions, 2014).  She is currently the Fulbright Distinguished Scholar in Creative Writing at Queen’s University, Belfast.  She is also an associate professor of English at Virginia Tech, where she teaches in the MFA program.  https://www.boaeditions.org/bookstore/copia.html

 

Issue #42 December 2014
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