Poetry Issue 21


Carlos Quijon, Jr.

Object Lessons


It is difficult not to side with objects. The pebble is frank in its fluency. The conch, a coquette. On my table, I keep a bug—or, at least a bug’s exquisite exoskeleton, the size of a coin. In my bag I keep a shell—not a clam, not a cowrie, not a cockle, but a ponderous ark. I used to sleep underneath my dad’s shelf of bottles of nuts and bolts. In my spare time, I mated nuts to bolts, I separated acorns from wings, square nuts from hexagons. Nowadays, I google kinds of nails, sizes of screws. I google paperweights. I google what a perfect sphere looks like. I google whether it is safe to vacuum small coins. Once, during a high fever, I had a dream that a lover gunned me with rivets, he turned off the lights and I became a constellation.

1   ·   2   ·   3   ·   4   ·   5   ·   6   ·   7   ·   8   ·   9