Boston Review
CURRENT ISSUE
table of contents
FEATURES
new democracy forum
new fiction forum
poetry
fiction
film
archives
ABOUT US
masthead
mission
rave reviews
contests
writers’ guidelines
internships
advertising
SERVICES
bookstore locator
literary links
subscribe
RSS feed

Search bostonreview.net
Search the Web
Google


 

Direction

You expect me to tell you about the interior of the room
in which I’m typing this, and connect it to my feelings,
but I’d rather tell you about the interior of your room
and use that as a symbol for something less abstract.

Actually, here’s a better idea. Let’s put our heads together
and try to think up a third room unknown to either of us,
then divide or multiply its number of windows by the least
number of words necessary to describe it.

In this way perhaps we can accurately triangulate
brief but nearly photographic images of each other’s
mothers when they were first married, in veils,
and of their driving down the street with tin-can tails,

of their first orgasmic separation, their little giggles,
and of their medication when it came time to prescribe it.
You expect me to tell you about the spite in my loin
which is the sad hail of commas in the professor’s paragraph,

but I can’t even begin to do it, for I am a ranch boy
and not even a very good one; I live in El Bandito, Texas.
I am an old man in Maine, I manage a dime store,
and you, you are a movie director, but only in your mind.   

—Aaron Belz



Aaron Belz’s poems have appeared in Fence and Fine Madness and are forthcoming in Margie and The Canary. He lives in St. Louis, Missouri.
Originally published in the Summer 2003 issue of Boston Review


Copyright Boston Review, 1993–2006. All rights reserved. Please do not reproduce without permission.

 | home | new democracy forum | fiction, film, poetry | archives | masthead | subscribe |