FathomOnline

 

 Fathom 1994

Cover

 

Inside Cover

 

Poetry

Graham Touchie (3)
Derrick Higginbotham
Tara J. Hoag (3)
Jason Holt (3)
Nadine Herman

Prose

Otto Lambert
Michael Kohn
Peter J. Taylor
Andrew Mitchell
Andrew MacLeod
Kenneth Gordon
Urs Frei

[PDF]

Tara J. Hoag

 

 

Moments You Are Leaving

People with serious coffee implicate morning in nods, in
spaces between footfalls dangling mistaken - frantic
as lost birds. I will ask them for tokens: a silence
bright enough to read by, a place
to hang your coat. All night I dream
of children bearing spoons, asking to see clouds in my
bathtub, my old suffering, somewhere vast and sad.
Smoke shuffles behind wind lashed limbs, never saying
goodbye. Hours stay for days in my blood. Even now,
there are moments you are leaving: the green lamp in
the harbor, the headlights threading through the dark
murmur “gone, gone.” Our happiness congeals
pigeons from the eaves – grey tears, falling
all over the city. A breath inscribes the halo of
your arms, the careful circle opening closer, softer
than rain.

 

Some Animals

Get back, black cat. I’ve left
your one two three fur
mice
in a basket I bought
at Pier 1

for you to choose like
dinner rolls.

You eat the basket – crunch
wicker with white needles,
pink barbed licker.

Feign disinterest. Flex
sickle nails, flick tail.

Cat, I’m
on to you and the
dilated night

behind the bone,
the mud of the evening.

Moon strums the iron twang
of blood. Tonight I’m
closing all the doors, cat –

watching the velvet grope
fingerless while I
kill without you.

 

The Trick

It once flew out the kitchen window, sat
regardless, belted out a starling’s static. Now
you keep it in the glovebox, flattened with remorse. I see you
dreaming helium in a corner, patting porcelain quail,
bronzed shoes – as they drift from tables and shelves.
Mother, you are the worst magician I ever met, the wrong
amalgamation of gravity and desire. While others sipped
flaming swords with eyes closed, you kept the porch light on
all night and waited. As if someone had not yet returned, perhaps
someone you had never met. Did you know then?
That I would like to rob your house? Something
should be broken for you – a window or a law. Said: it is a house
easy to get into, if draughts can ransack a bedroom, what
next? I say it is easier to leave, everyone
disappearing, through no sleight of hand. You are not supposed
to bleed yards of red brocade, you are not supposed to
turn yourself into a dove. Mother, who you are is lost to me
through some refraction – the way miracles and accidents are
matters of distinction. I want you to forget those four leaf
clovers you found all at once, to say you are beautiful
down to your teeth.

 

last updated August 17, 2007 | © 2007 Fathom Publishing
poetry, prose, and artwork © individual authours | website created by Alana Paul