Friday, December 10, 2004

Angel of the Morning

Who are you?
You are “husband.”
What is “husband?”

“Husband” is made out of rubberbands
and salt. Husband floats in most bodies
of water, except for Lake Michigan, in
which he sinks. Husband flew to this
country, used a motor boat in the shape
of a swan when his arms got tired.

Husband has feathers for hair, slight
webbing between his fingers and
toes. Husband used to be
something else, something low and
scaley, but husband tried to reform.

Husband has teeth the size of
shoeboxes. When he kisses me
it hurts, a little.


I'm not sure about the title. I was also thinking, Swollen Angel. Got a couple rejections this week, one from the New Yorker. I think it's a good sign that now when I get rejected all I think is "great! now I can send these out to another place," rather than, "yes, I do suck ass, you're right."


aleah said...

LOL. I know what you mean. I still feel the little pangs of "why me" every now and then. But the New Yorker sucks ass and is stuffy. So there! Feel better?

I agree re: title. I was thinking something which draws upon the webbed feet and reference to stunted evolution... Nebula or Methane or Paleozoic ...

Michael said...

Oh gee, now I know I'm not the only one who views that as the silver lining of rejection letters. And I thought it was such an origional concept. That sucks ass! LOL.

As Bjorn said...

I don't think the title works at all.

As for the New Yorker, is it still published? The poetry in it was never really the good stuff being written at the time. They always lived in fear of not being critically cool enough. And fear destroys art.