Poems From An Email Exchange
Re: Your Submission 9:27pm
Editor
to Me
Hanif,
We regret to inform you
that the poem in which
the dog empties itself
into morning’s fresh glow
as a metaphor for love
will not be accepted by our magazine
we invite you to submit again
we invite you to first find love
that isn’t shaken to life
by the warmth of a dog’s digested meal
we are sending this email from the depths
of 2,000 gutted roses
we are being swallowed
by what our lovers tore from the earth
we fall in love with everything
we want to kiss the streets strangers have walked on
the dog will always find new ground
the bowl will always be full
we cannot take your poem at this time
because we are cat people
we wish you the best of luck
in placing this poem elsewhere.
Re: Your Submission 9:45pm
Me
to Editor
Dear Editors,
You mention the cat, which hides every mess it makes. I imagine love as an indecent animal. I have stepped in what is left in the streets after the dogs have been left to the carelessness of their owners. I have cleaned the sneaker, stained with the residue of a dogs feast. I have turned the brown back to the moon-white glow and placed my foot gently inside. This, too, is romance. The unclean face kissed clean and made ready for the night. I may ask you to reconsider this poem. I may ask you to reconsider love. I would like to take you on a date. We will walk the gardens of Brooklyn. We will let our feet sink into the mud.
Re: Your Submission 10:37pm
Editor
to Me
Hanif,
we regret to inform you
that there are no gardens in Brooklyn
there is only concrete
everything is an endless brunch
everything is a bottomless drink
We say bottomless and we mean that
we know the end is approaching
we just can’t see it
the only true currency in this city
is what you don’t know
or what you know
but won’t say out loud
we regret, again, to inform you
that your poem did not remind us
of anyone we have loved
we read your poem to someone
who we had once kissed
and their entire memory vanished
we read your poem to our mothers
and we became a little more unborn
with each line
we regret to inform you
that your poem
would render the world childless
your poem would undo weddings
your poem would cover every undressed body
in two hundred layers.
Re: Your Submission 11:38pm
Me
to Editor
Respectfully,
Midnight is closing in / isn’t it funny / how only the darkness / is a thing that people say closes in / I come from a state / where there is grass everywhere / it grows out of the walls / it grows out of our hands / it spills from our mouths / any time we speak / I mean to say / that I am actually the garden you are looking for / I mean to say / that I have awaken in the brunch hours / and refused to eat / I am a man of boundaries / there is an hour for pancakes / there is an hour for pizza / in between / there is only hunger / and now we return / to the animal / my friend had an iguana / that would rest on his stomach as he slept / every night / for the sake of warmth / but never for the sake of love / I have had my face pulled away from this closing darkness / and into the light of a computer screen / once again / but this is also not love / I do not confuse necessity for love / I do not confuse hunger / with the need to fill myself / with anything that will have me / I am sorry about Brooklyn / I am sorry about everywhere that is not what it was once / isn’t that so American / I am so sorry about what all of this / has done to your heart.
Re: Your Submission 12:40am
Editor
to Me
My dude,
Truly, this is not going to work
why does it always have to be about
the inside of the body with you poets
can’t our heart just be an untethered
and unspectacular thing that keeps us from a funeral
we regret to inform you that Ohio is barely a state
we regret to inform you that the Midwest
is only Chicago
and other places that want to be Chicago
we drove through Ohio once and saw
only the promise of a waiting hell
on a billboard between farms
maybe this is why you are so lonely
maybe this is why you write only about exits
we have seen skyscrapers
we believe ourselves infinite
we cannot accept poems about grass
what is grass to someone who
is always looking up?
Re: Your Submission 2:19am
Me
to Editor
Perhaps, then, the fall. I wish you a chorus of leaves. Piled to whatever is left of your eyes. Whatever the sky hasn’t
taken.
Best,
Hanif
