Noah War­ren

The Iowa Review - - CONTENTS - Noah war­ren

Ram Rot­ting on the Hill Lis­ten­ers

Per­haps be­cause know­ing—even know­ing the em­piric flex of my com­plic­ity, know­ing the fine threads that caught me at birth and ta­pes­try me to bod­ies nod­ding from the branch, skim­ming the sand, to the crushed throat and the ri­fle up the ass­hole and click, webs down which the hor­rors pearl slowly to col­lect in the white cup where like a peeled snake my brain coiled pulses— be­fore it ar­rives at x, peters out in a cu­ri­ous beige land­scape of the spirit, wind­less, lonely, my fa­ther— faded sculp­tor—fash­ioned me th­ese bone glasses.

I peer through thin

ovals sawed in two scapu­lae sanded past ridge and grain then shel­lacked; fe­mur slices hook my ears; and the four parts fold in on sil­ver hinges, a col­laps­ing bridge.

Pre­cious, un­wear­able; and yet when the mus­cles tighten around my eyes and a white­ness spreads needling in from the edges of my see­ing

then I slide them on, then it’s evening, rain out­side, and the linen lamp­shade glows gen­tly to limn the near curves of dark cher­ries and the gar­lic rest­ing on the ta­ble.

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