ditch,

the poetry that matters

Sandra Huber

Sandra Huber is currently working on a project of poetry in collaboration with the sleep laboratory at the Centre for Integrative Genomics in Lausanne, Switzerland (http://www.artistsinlabs.ch/english/program.php). She has published in various literary journals and read at festivals, including the Vienna Lit Fest and London Word. She holds an MA in Creative Writing from the University of Toronto and has received funding from both SSHR and the Toronto Arts Council. Alongside writing, she spends her time curating an online journal of experimental literature, Dear Sir, which can be found at www.dearsir.org.

Sive Sky

 

 

 

 

the more I know you the more I real

realize I’ve been d d d d dreaming o

of the more I know you the more I r

r r r real r realize                                                              we

cannot mistrust absence. it is our o

only monument.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I loose you to the fiction of beginnings.  To

the storybook seacoast we were never mea

nt to trespass with our too finite laughter. d

on’t be so surprised. i lose you like one los

es speech in shock, bracing for your return,

never asking what can be gained from silen

ce.  nobody knows what forever is.  every

moment a flimsy defence against the bla

nk weight of loss.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I loose you to the fiction of beginnings. (T

here is no here no there.)  I say I saw you

once: on a train heading southbound and

your eyes, they diced the passing light into

coherence (your retinas swallowed winter)

and my head, it fell sideways into the cold

window, the tremor of commute passing fr

om my gaze to yours.  Say you knew me th

en out of simplicity.  Because I did not ask

you things, did not touch you, do not satisfy

your curiosity, hold nothing of yours.  In m

y proximity.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I lied to you then about the dystopias of wi

nd.  Created syllogisms from the nonsense o

f your palm.  I would have bit your lip in play,

pressed my hand into the must of your back. 

An earlobe turned towards your mouth.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In retrospect, the dim falters.  The why 

I said the things you said the way I said.

Our most poignant scenarios abandon

to the debris of right margin, held infi

nite to the curser of interpretation.  Wh

ose missing voice forgives a loss. I wa

s here.  Once more and again our long

ings turn to marks as specialized as in

difference, ambling between somewhe

re’s pavement and the mutually exclu

sive sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Neither missing from me nor I from you, 

no surmise, only simply:  that I give every

thing now.  Everything.  How do I say this. 

What is lost in lover’s language (that we

come to this alone).  That you have everyt

hing. You have everything you’ll ever nee

d.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am c com com com

completely honest wi

with you. I put up n n

no I put up up n n n n

no walls with you. i li

ft each hand to write

that we cannot erase

an end.

 

  

Translation

A German version of this poem (translated by Gregor Runge) can be found at Dear Sir:
http://www.dearsir.org/sites_current_issue_writers/huber_runge.html

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