Elisa Gabbert
five poems
**
Against Consequence
We can see it as he sees it, when he says So pretty,
about a car flying off a cliff—it just escaped
captivity and has finally discovered its wingspan—
he watches the wall, as though the idea’s projected
on a drive-in screen, gripping his desk like a dash.
The twelve of us follow his gaze; we almost taste
the popcorn, tinged with fumes of gasoline.
But it can’t just be an image, one of us protests—
Can it? Nobody answers. We all want
the film to freeze, not the falcon to explode.
**
In a Café
I met a man whose memory ran backwards.
He sat at my table and filled out the crossword
in raster. I memorized it tomorrow, he said.
I smoked several of his cigarettes; he promised
they wouldn’t kill me. He knew nothing of the past,
could not conjure an image of his parents.
I spoke of the betrayals of mine.
We looked out at the view: it was raining,
with gravestones. But I was not unhappy.
He walked me home, and in the shared warmth
below his umbrella I let him kiss me.
It felt like a last kiss instead of a first.
It seemed impossible not to love him.
When the sky cleared he pointed to Orion,
the X of the body, lines crossed in space.
I knew it had always been this way.
He knew it would never be otherwise.
**
Notes For a Scene
They stop at the corner so Paul can catch
his breath—skidding sounds on gravel,
hovering wave of dust—jackknifed over,
hands on his knees like the air down there
is richer. Mick slips a fucking cigarette
from behind his ear & lights it, sucks
a long drag. A low car rolls by, windows
down, & a girl peers out through sunglasses
into their blood-tinted faces, lip-syncing
to a jingle on the radio, the hood so shiny
there’s clouds in it. This lasts longer
than it would. Paul & Mick, still taut
in their attitudes, look into the real sky.
Do they know the girl?
**
To Us
It seemed like no one else was drunk,
like it wasn’t that kind of party.
In movies, a couple often wanders
to the second floor, pokes into a study;
one runs a hand along book spines,
palms a figurine, says something crude.
The other is nervous, eyeing the door.
I wanted to do that with you, to find out
which one of us would close it,
which one would struggle to leave.
But we were needed in the kitchen,
our hostess was raising a toast.
When we clinked our glasses together,
mine shattered. I looked at the shards
and wine around our shoes,
still holding the stem. You took a sip
and said, Material fatigue.
I didn’t know if that was true.
But I felt better, imagining
it was just its time to die.
**
New Year's Eve Eve at My Parents' House
The TV stayed on all day, though we
wandered off to nap, or stare into the fridge,
or run to the liquor store. It was resolute,
flashing its endless semaphores
at an empty room. Allen languished
outside in the unseasonable gleam,
rereading a greasy Harper’s.
My brother’s girlfriend trimmed her bangs
again. My mother checked her email.
We waited till evening, so we could start
waiting for dinner, so we could sit down
to the color wheel of leftovers
and fall back on the couch, scan
for good commercials. My brother
poured himself another glass of wine,
splashing it over the ottoman,
and said There’s only one way to prove
that dishes don’t wash themselves.
A piece of tomato flew out
of my mouth. I couldn’t stop laughing,
thinking about the end of time.
**
return to sawbuck 1.1
**
Elisa Gabbert holds degrees from Rice University and Emerson College . She is a reader for Ploughshares and an editor of Absent. Her recent work appears or will appear in journals including LIT, No Tell Motel, Kulture Vulture, Melancholia's Tremulous Dreadlocks, RealPoetik, H_NGM_N, Redivider, and Shampoo. A chapbook, Thanks for Sending the Engine, is forthcoming from Kitchen Press.
**
Against Consequence
We can see it as he sees it, when he says So pretty,
about a car flying off a cliff—it just escaped
captivity and has finally discovered its wingspan—
he watches the wall, as though the idea’s projected
on a drive-in screen, gripping his desk like a dash.
The twelve of us follow his gaze; we almost taste
the popcorn, tinged with fumes of gasoline.
But it can’t just be an image, one of us protests—
Can it? Nobody answers. We all want
the film to freeze, not the falcon to explode.
**
In a Café
I met a man whose memory ran backwards.
He sat at my table and filled out the crossword
in raster. I memorized it tomorrow, he said.
I smoked several of his cigarettes; he promised
they wouldn’t kill me. He knew nothing of the past,
could not conjure an image of his parents.
I spoke of the betrayals of mine.
We looked out at the view: it was raining,
with gravestones. But I was not unhappy.
He walked me home, and in the shared warmth
below his umbrella I let him kiss me.
It felt like a last kiss instead of a first.
It seemed impossible not to love him.
When the sky cleared he pointed to Orion,
the X of the body, lines crossed in space.
I knew it had always been this way.
He knew it would never be otherwise.
**
Notes For a Scene
They stop at the corner so Paul can catch
his breath—skidding sounds on gravel,
hovering wave of dust—jackknifed over,
hands on his knees like the air down there
is richer. Mick slips a fucking cigarette
from behind his ear & lights it, sucks
a long drag. A low car rolls by, windows
down, & a girl peers out through sunglasses
into their blood-tinted faces, lip-syncing
to a jingle on the radio, the hood so shiny
there’s clouds in it. This lasts longer
than it would. Paul & Mick, still taut
in their attitudes, look into the real sky.
Do they know the girl?
**
To Us
It seemed like no one else was drunk,
like it wasn’t that kind of party.
In movies, a couple often wanders
to the second floor, pokes into a study;
one runs a hand along book spines,
palms a figurine, says something crude.
The other is nervous, eyeing the door.
I wanted to do that with you, to find out
which one of us would close it,
which one would struggle to leave.
But we were needed in the kitchen,
our hostess was raising a toast.
When we clinked our glasses together,
mine shattered. I looked at the shards
and wine around our shoes,
still holding the stem. You took a sip
and said, Material fatigue.
I didn’t know if that was true.
But I felt better, imagining
it was just its time to die.
**
New Year's Eve Eve at My Parents' House
The TV stayed on all day, though we
wandered off to nap, or stare into the fridge,
or run to the liquor store. It was resolute,
flashing its endless semaphores
at an empty room. Allen languished
outside in the unseasonable gleam,
rereading a greasy Harper’s.
My brother’s girlfriend trimmed her bangs
again. My mother checked her email.
We waited till evening, so we could start
waiting for dinner, so we could sit down
to the color wheel of leftovers
and fall back on the couch, scan
for good commercials. My brother
poured himself another glass of wine,
splashing it over the ottoman,
and said There’s only one way to prove
that dishes don’t wash themselves.
A piece of tomato flew out
of my mouth. I couldn’t stop laughing,
thinking about the end of time.
**
return to sawbuck 1.1
**
Elisa Gabbert holds degrees from Rice University and Emerson College . She is a reader for Ploughshares and an editor of Absent. Her recent work appears or will appear in journals including LIT, No Tell Motel, Kulture Vulture, Melancholia's Tremulous Dreadlocks, RealPoetik, H_NGM_N, Redivider, and Shampoo. A chapbook, Thanks for Sending the Engine, is forthcoming from Kitchen Press.
