1 by candice wuehle
I talk less. Crowds happen and effort.
Luck makes the words
that cause listening. In the enclosure
I wait for anyone
to say in order
there are only two possibilities
and then I do it carefully. In the nail care salon
a woman from a state I was once in
told the television doctor she was held in a cellar for ten years.
I put on an iPod and listened to Bruce Springsteen
and paid money and left. It is fine to never experience murder
emotions. To have medium-feelings. I am a thin woman.
I can slip out of many constructions,
I slipped out of that. In German I have long been a machine only to now be
Each completed digit creamed in bronze, lacquered decay
and I think to say that when she saw her self styled in a mirror that woman thought her
hair was beautiful. Fine. I too seek even now.
It means not twisting your head
to look at your own back.
I write to tell you I saw a Ouija run in reverse.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Z Y X W V U T S R Q P O N M L K
Z Y X W V U T S R Q P O N M L K
I want idiot
words: learned helplessness. In the
clearing I tell the story of your last telephone call.
You said violence. I was in a Borders, I said
I’m calling your twin. I am
unavailable to you. I heard the Podcast: Dangerously Unqualified
Dating Disasters which our friend now airs
with whom you stayed that day in the city
just today. My trapezius
has ached since the yes-yes device.
Re-present your ear when slapped and the slapping
is no longer an assaulting.
Are you an asterisk
off the Word I used oftener once? Questions
like the above are why star wishes are
criminal. We cannot fall through
I could step into a closet and close the door and after three days and two hours and six minutes step out
and say that was three days and two hours and six minutes. No
I couldn't know how much longer
I've been here. I could if
space were a through-construct; if when trapped
I did not relapse
and answer double.
I try to feel formal
pressure but there isn't enough. I have a wig
which looks like my own hair I never
wear it out. Not anything could make me
send. Not all the
arms, not any soldier in this zone.
Anything could make me
Anything could make me want
to add an end. Tend my life
I have avoided rule and offers and am still prosecuted
by subject desire. The man who answers
his mail can call it
love. Never call one crushed
royalty. Easy descent
is for jobs and so What is the World For? Days.
Days of effort until the original poem surfaces
through a search engine.
To answer your text: it’s off to be
returned. I saw a child in a mask with another mask
with another mask with another mask. So
many straps. I
didn't think of you, I thought of me. What
drag — an after-event that won’t occur without the other
no, more like popular radio: I’m survivin’.
In the museum there is just one ash-man.
One is all I need to remember all the space
is not mine. My body is getting better
at being my own. I've been breathing. Anyway
I can and won’t erase your address
not not needing to erase mine over there not any time
away, not needing
to say: Dear,
it’s the lungs and it isn’t the air,
it isn't count. I mean cut off the supply, I’m
CANDICE WUEHLE is a graduate of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in Iowa City, Iowa, holds a Masters in Literature from the University of Minnesota and is a PhD candidate at the University of Kansas where she is a Chancellor’s Fellow. Some of her poems can be or will be found in The Volta, Inter|rupture, NOÖ, Boaat, Fairy Tale Review, BlazeVOX, SOFTBLOW, Similar:Peaks:: and SAND: Berlin’s English Literary Journal. Candice’s chapbook, cursewords, is forthcoming from Dancing Girl Press.