poetry, place and informatics

issue 1



issue 1

Andrew McCallum


the game concludes
like the last notes of a symphony
knight and rook
have left my father's king
nowhere to go
he sits in the corner
trapped humbled

the board dissolves
leaving a table by a window
chairs squeaking
and the snow outside
suddenly falling faster

It is my son

I am writing a poem
the phone rings
a voice speaks

I hurry out of my head
scrambling through words
clambering over images

it is my son
I hear him as distant bird-song
I laugh over something my mouth says
my hand describes pictures in the air

yes do come over
no Iím not doing anything

(I am almost touching a black cat under my skin
almost able to see through my prowling fingertips)

we exchange words like promissory notes
only when we hang up do I say
I love you

my poem has turned into a small brown owl
perched above the tree-swing in my garden

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