Two Poems by Anna Weaver
unshared thoughts traveling alone
What’s that what’s that what
do they call that what is he doing where
am I is that a hooker is that safe
to drink
how much should I tip is this
the right street gate building door what
did she say what did she mean
am I underdressed?
Oh god, it’s so big small elegant
filthy wet bright hazy hot!
Is this normal did I offend
them
am I in the right line what’s
the word
for please thank you where
is the bathroom
is that supposed
to be a toilet what does that
button do
should I push it and find out?
When’s my next flight ferry subway
bus ride how
long to the airport marina
underground
taxi queue from here how much
is that in dollars am I supposed to barter
will
this cab driver cheat me kidnap me resent me
say anything besides where to, miss?
What day is it again what time
back home
where everyone who loves
me is sleeping
will they like their souvenirs?
I think I could live here I can’t wait
to get home
can’t wait to come back bring
my children
sister lover someone to help carry back
all these questions.
Wanderlust
If all this isn’t just for show, maybe
we should go home. If people live
here for reason other than for us
to gawk at, maybe we should leave
them to it. Let’s never again say words
like colorful or poignant, never wave
hands to punctuate the story of what
we once saw through $50 sunglasses
and healthy eyes. Yes, let’s make our way
home and stay there, lick our wanderlust
like a flesh wound, absently stroke
the smooth scar at parties as we listen,
for a change, to the lives of the other
guests. It won’t be so bad, keeping
company with running water, sidewalks,
vaccinations. Eventually we will learn to bear
the full weight of our money. Meantime,
the cities will not miss us much. Schoolgirls
will continue to wait on busses and opportunity,
the waiter will linger over a cigarette out back,
street hawkers and pedicab drivers will drive
on in the haze of their own making, none
of them noticing the merciful absence
of our apologetic smiles and clean feet.
About the author
Raised in Oklahoma, Anna Weaver has yet to find a more satisfying sky or a better sunset on three continents. Not that she’d admit…
Read the full bioIssue 20 · May 2014
Table of contents
- From the editors
- Poetry
- Two Poems by Kassandra Montag
- Two Poems by Bernard Henrie
- Two Poems by Anna Weaver
- Seamstress
- Gifts: Naxos
- hands off
- Two poems by Gary Maggio
- Ukrainian Now
- Etched
- Newport Mansions, Observed from the Cliff Walk
- Two poems by Pepper Trail
- 10-100
- First Day in Sydney, 1992
- Microclimates
- Two Poems by Laurie Byro
- Train Kids
- Floating World
- Morning Trip to the Mechanic
- Transcendental Nocturne
- Two poems by Kim Suttell