Andrew K. Peterson
Gone ’til November
What you feel is not a draught but a breeze
They led me away
The linen didn’t stir
We are not at home
To arrive
What if I still do not know
How to touch
And still believe I’m human
(Perhaps no one will notice
Being nestled where we are)
Greet this slow and siren
Put these flowers in a vase and let’s get on with things
Ask more questions
Lunging for the air singing
This is the day / the day has made
Something to think about
That we loved all outer space
And resemble one another
11/30/16
Author’s Note: This cento collages last lines that appear on page 30 of books by Barbara Guest, S. Whitney Holmes, Nicole Brossard, Diane Di Prima, Lisa Ciccarello, Dorothea Lasky, Joanne Kyger, Helen Adam, Lisa Jarnot, Barbara Henning, Akilah Oliver, Sappho trans. By Anne Carson, Susie Timmons, Hoa Nguyen, Kelin Loe, Jenelle Porter interviewing Jessica Jackson Hutchins, and Elissa Gabbert.
Andrew K. Peterson is the author of The Big Game Is Every Night (Locofo Chaps, 2017), Anonymous Bouquet (Spuyten Duyvil, 2015), and bonjour meriwether and the rabid maps (Fact-Simile, 2011). His work appears in Emergency Index 2012 (Ugly Duckling Presse) and has been featured in museum exhibits and performance projects. He edits the online literary journal summer stock and lives in Boston.
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