Mirror NorthWest

Linden Ontjes

APARTMENT 43

Through the ceiling
I can hear
how you walk, stop,
walk -- a
stuttering, shuffling,
circular thought.
Your tread overhead
familiar
as left and right
kicked off -- kathump.
Maybe your
arches ache
or your seams
don’t seem straight.
Down here, my dread
begins to pace in place:
It’s not you I mind
it’s that hearing you
means you’re
hearing me:
I am no longer a tree
that falls in a forest.
Dear Neighbor, I’ll write,
could you walk on your hands?
Dear Neighbor, I’ll tap
shall we dance? The same
Arthur Murray design
on my ceiling, your floor.
When I start the music, begin
as if I held you in my arms.
When I start the music,
we’ll be head over heels.

SPONGE

O sponge, the color of plankton and brine, deep sea endorphins,
the mapping of oceans: hachures and isopleth lines

What misnomer is this, sold under your name?
Cellophane wrapped, surgical green, cross tested as blue
and marketed pink.

O form endowed, Porifera porous and raucous, thou whiskered
manatee: sea cow mistaken for mermaid.

Not this pre-shaped, slice of polite; sized to fit
the dishwasher’s grip, hand in glove with yellow latex.

O scent of pink knees above soapy water in porcelain tub,
whiff of warm flannel, bedtime and stories --

Not searing antibacterial, scratch or soft scrub,
like ether for dishes or what killed the goldfish.

Colony dweller, you spun your humble ins-and-outs, content
with what the sea presents; while the pretender,

O-Cello Sponge Scrubber, manufactures hysteria.
CAUTION: Wash. Rinse. Repeat. WARNING: Only this sponge
is truly clean enough to eat.

THAT'S WHY

Because I cut a hole in the screen, my
sister never forgave me because she
was hit and I said, Nothing, not me. I
let the fly out by cutting a hole; the

Fly wanted out. Time was a hole in the
screen and it flew. Because I cut a hole
in the screen and knew he would hit me,
out flew the lie. A screen’s made of holes

But you can’t cut a hole in it. I told
a lie which is trapped here inside, Buzz buzz
Buzz buzz. A fly swatter’s a screen to hold
by the handle, swing your arm down because

that’s how you hit. Because flies are unclean, I
cut a hole in my sister; I cut a hole in the screen.

CONTRIBUTOR

My poetry explores the dynamics, structure and riotous energy of language. With sly ellipses and blithe leaps, it sometimes resembles a series of digressions more than a narrative. Yet like a flaneur in an overcoat, a poem may find, upon returning home, its main point made by the accumulation of impertinent details in its pockets. I embrace Marriane Moore’s challenge: to be a “literalist of the imagination.” To me, words are as real as the things they describe. Lastly, I believe poetry is an aural art that depends upon an internal music. The real toads in my imaginary garden sing in chorus, in harmony, to coax us into their mud-mad puddles.

I have published my poetry in Ploughshares, Prairie Schooner, Nimrod, The Louisville Review, Ice-Floe, Porcupine, The Exquisite Corpse, The Seattle Review, The Comstock Review, RE: AL, Atlanta Review, and other journals and magazines.