ANTHONY OPAL


Anthony Opal is poetry editor for The Economy and chapbook review editor for
TriQuarterly Online. His poems, prose, and translations have appeared in various
magazines and journals, including Boston Review, Harpur Palate, Notre Dame Review,
and The Progressive. He lives in Chicago, where he is an MFA candidate at
Northwestern University. For more visit www.anthonyopal.com.






Sonnet

I invite the coyote in and give him
free reign of the interior space to
redecorate my place in accordance with
his tastes to which I cannot relate and
become surprisingly excited at
the prospect of hating the color scheme
coyote chooses or the arrangement
of the furniture the hanging artwork
(though we both love Jackson Pollock
and the violence inherent to this and
those red strokes crossing over each other)
"I am nature" Pollock says coyote
once told me to which I replied loudly
"I know coyote I know I know I know"






Sonnet

stick to the image of an owl or
the tall thin pine around the lake imagine
that it was your home and that you were
a collector of squirrel bones and that you would
watch them fall end over end from such great
heights do you think that this would change
your current views on God or politics
even though you would never be allowed
to vote or attend a church service
unless you listened from the bell tower
or took communion from a rain puddle
or punched the ballot with your beak even
though they're almost all digital now you
probably wouldn't care wouldn't put on
your best owl suit wouldn't even own one






Sonnet

if there are symbols for numbers then
what are words I wonder palming lemon
after lemon from the wicker basket
in the exact center of the table
as the dog across the street moans to speak
and fails at articulating but not
at communicating like one of those
cave wall drawings etched into the stone the
dog moans a picture of a buffalo
being speared by fire tall as a man
handprints that make up the mask of a hawk
horses and birds and more buffalo all
without words like "lemon" or "quiet dog"
who's free from his chain in the coming rain






Sonnet

and who am I to not slowly fashion
a small god from the fingernail clippings
of the girl I love Jackson Pollock of
the body was an idea I had
for a sculpture imagining if chaos
was spatial like that which happens when
a word disappears into an object
between us the vase of your shoulders or
as Andre Breton put it better
"my wife whose shoulders are champagne"
and so I wake in the myriad mums
(my pubic hair littered with mum pollen)
or as Adam put it just yesterday
"oh bone of my bone and flesh of my flesh"



Back to Front.