Ian Dreiblat.jpg

Two Poems

Ian Dreiblatt

i mean most milk happens in galaxies

beautiful moon I love you!

 

mysterious longing I carve my forked name into your lashes!

 

sweeping despondency I drive amid your paisley throb!

 

laryngitis I sew a line of yarn across your bread!

 

our failures of imagination are failures of justice

 

sweet-tooth as syntax build a commons, frontiers squealing surplus

 

it’s my nature to become unsure

 

we live like everyone else but like one isn’t supposed to live

 

no more involuntary art

 

no more waking up spatula in hand to walk down down down down down down down

 

sweet prurience I glue things to driftwood in the warmth of your distraction!

 

dislocation I streak my eyes with cinnabar!

 

counterpoint I tarry in the microphone’s filth!

 

delusion you seem rich I mean you live like a very rich person!

 

revolt against the continuity of curves

 

a successful emotional niche requires appropriate intensity calibration

 

all scary, no spice. all aga, no memnon

 

reverie clicks its tongue: a particular indecision, a beachball, a wrench

 

oh please come away with me we can shed all parts of speech

 

while vowels slow-melt back into the walls of the pyramid

jeremiah

I am in ancient

egypt with the prophet

Jeremiah. is it weird

I ask to be a prophet?

 

no it just means they

haven’t burned what

you wrote he says

 

I came from a

lineage of priests in

a small northern

town, we had a

sacred mailbox, all

the sheep of

happiness everything

 

we moved to the city

which is awful got

work as priests an

impossible situation we’d

be reading the most

beautiful ancient shit

that to be in any world

is also an exile our songs the

sleeping of bridges all this

super beautiful shit

while they slit screaming

goats’ necks thru the

window divine right

of goat’s blood everywhere

 

and then bastards came

the incoherence in their

teeth an ache that

only dominion could fill

 

so we fled here to

the birthplace of

difference, to make

cities of ourselves,

a tiny temple wherever

any two words meet

 

what would you do all

day? I’d write he says

or talk out loud for my

friends to write down, I

mastered the law of

phantomed bodies, learned

to unspool whatever

tongues knew

 

I cast red fabric from

the library windows &

tried to make an intimacy

between my memory

and the memory of

the world only it turns

out worlds don’t remember

a goddamn thing

 

poetry is hard work! I

say & he’s like yeah poetry

is hard work

 

what did you write? I

ask, o what does

it matter? I sided with

kings, priests, teachers, I

picked allies &

causes in rooms I

dreamt a deep sleep of

pure listening &

carried back what

I could, none of this

makes sense now, here, I

am a different person

 

you sound depressed I say

not really he tells me I

worked the braids of

circumstance as best

I could the air & how

to fill it I lived a life of

art & besides someone had

to do something, us

just living there in

the desert so much

past & so little history

Ian Dreiblatt’s translation of Dmitrii Furman’s Spiral is forthcoming from Verso Books. His poetry collection forget thee is forthcoming from Ugly Duckling Presse. He’s TV Commercials Correspondent at the Believer and lives in Brooklyn, where he talks to people about their dogs.

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Nat. Brut is a proud winner of a 2020 Whiting Literary Magazine Prize