by David Dodd Lee
We do try to speak out, voices in little bursts,
the snapping of twiglets, maybe in a bustle
from bedroom to office. As well, aghast,
we sometimes overthink, estranged in the
moment, estranged by the moment, a lack
of imagination, of experience. It’s hard
to know. I’ve also ruminated plenty in the
dark, voices spilling out of a bedroom
vent. Once, I walked along a break-wall
& watched two seagulls converse. They
ran on small stick legs toward the horizon
when a wave crashed itself into geysers.
Up into currents on curved wings. It seemed
they had no reason to keep speaking. I
cannot recall the shape of your eyebrows
anymore. I watched a man nod to a woman,
each tipping an Oly, where they relaxed in
green lawn chairs, smoking. What else is
there to say when you can walk 100 yards &
buy soft ice cream or French fries from a
teenager in a concession stand? Sometimes
salmon wash ashore, and they stay there,
looking astonished, until someone removes,
eats, or kicks them back into the water.
David Dodd Lee is a prolific author. His twelve volumes of poetry include The Nervous Filaments (Four Way Books, 2010) and Animalities (Four Way Books, 2014). A new book of erasure poems, original poems, and collages, Unlucky Animals, appeared in 2018. His recent work appears in The Nation, Prairie Schooner, Guernica, Chattahoochee Review, Pleiades, Denver Quarterly, Mississippi Review, and elsewhere.