emily pettit – two poems

•   June 09 2014 // poetry   •

Two poems by Emily Pettit.


I look at the pictures over and over.
To help me remember. We did that
and we did this. He did that. Covered
in leaves. She did that. They did that.
Salt in the water. I did that. Elk by
the side of the road. The elk by the side
of the road alive. You by the side of
the road alive. The calendar is impatient.
Borges explains it in his story with
the character that wants to name
everything. Wants all new numbers.
Wants one word for everything and anything.
I want to be an orange ball of music.
Could you hear me sewing in the dark?
Finishing something.



There’s a particular recollection
of an event and person. Then there’s
what you do or don’t do with that.
I tried to tap into the old bitterness
to see if it could teach me anything
about the new bitterness, but it was
a wall. A wall not worth looking at.
Not a wall to walk along. I will. I do
want to believe what I believe about you.
Make up some goodness. Goodness
to hold. Goodness you do hold.
Like a movie. Like a motion picture.
How a motion picture might hold you.
Moving that holds. Some say they want
more clarity. I too want more clarity
and then at other times so much less.
Less clarity that is. You keep pressing
a button like will this change things?
When does the postman ever ring?
Rings twice. An actress rings when?
The movie makes you cry forever.
How you might think of someone else.



Emily Pettit is the author of Goat in the Snow (Birds LLC, 2012) and three chapbooks: Because You Can Have This Idea About Being Afraid Of Something (Dikembe Press, 2013), How (Octopus Books), and What Happened to Limbo (Pilot Books). She is an editor for Factory Hollow Press, jubilat, and notnostrums. She teaches at Flying Object and Elms College.