Gra­ham Barn­hart

The Iowa Review - - CONTENTS - Gra­ham barn­hart

My Pitts­burgh In­di­ana-stan Pos­i­tive Feed­back Cul­ti­vat­ing Mass Cer­tifi­cates of Train­ing The War Makes Ev­ery­one Lonely Sewing Days of 2009 Ev­ery­thing in Sun­light I Can’t Stop See­ing

For as long as I was gone my Pitts­burgh was a sum­mer city of tele­phone poles tacked all over with beer bot­tle caps. In the evenings, deer wan­dered Forbes Av­enue on their way to or from the river. No one was sur­prised when lovers spent af­ter­noons lean­ing naked from bed­room win­dows call­ing Marco— Polo— On their sills am­ber glasses of iced tea emp­tied and filled with sun­light.

When I came home there was snow— Beau­ti­ful in the way beau­ti­ful means ab­sent, hoof­prints ap­peared reg­u­larly at the cross­walks, but the deer were no longer seen. Hop­ing to be­come ves­sels for which to pour into need not also mean pour­ing out, lovers spent the win­ter whis­per­ing —Marco —Polo back and forth in the cold parks un­til, lips pressed to their ears, they heard each other say­ing only — Marco —Marco —Marco

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