Laurel Hunt: Hush now, traveller

May your house be full of tiny chameleons. May you keep
bamboo floors in the wake of the flood. May the whales
change their throats and ears just for the hearing of your
song, and so become deaf to the songs of all other whales.
My mother says she’s never felt degendered by math. Oh,
but I have. You write wobbly letters to say your hair is long
now, to say that you’ve been single for so long. That the tugboats
do not mean well, that you’ve drawn your own copyright
traps on all of the maps, they are hidden wells, they are
revolving bookcases, so many that you cannot leave
the house. You’re in Chicago now. So you will always be
in Chicago. Well. Call me if Carsten Höller comes to town.
Once you asked me if I’d shave you. I declined. What would
I have done if you bled. I don’t speak that language
of tenderness, anyone. Only the one where the squid goes pale.
The one where the dark-winged bird does the same dance
as before, to get the same girl. I remember you kneeling
on the ground with big gloves on. /                      I remember you.
I don’t even like you anymore. But this can still be a lullaby.

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