PAUL HOSTOVSkY's Unlikely Loves : Ars P.O.
PAUL HOSTOVSKY : Love and Death
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PAUL HOSTOVSkY's Unlikely Loves
Ars P.O.
A poem should have at least one good list— anything liquid, fragile, perishable, or potentially hazardous? A poem should be suspicious as a package you might put into the hands of unsuspecting others. Can you be trusted? Can they be trusted? You can receive a thing without opening it. You can reject a thing without opening it. You can read a poem by holding it up to the light, holding it up to your ear and giving it a shake to see what shifts. You can even walk away from it and come back to it later to see if it has changed you, opened you. Oh my bearer of rectangles, if I could tell you how to tell the pure money of the poems from all the other rectangles in your little square truck with its picture of flight on both flanks, if I could show you how to feel it through the envelope, like a Braille letter, like someone else's goose bumps in your hands, worth its weight in transport of a kind I cannot teach you how to make your own, though you steal it, though you open every letter, oh my poor letter carrier, rich already with the handling of it, though you look for it in all four corners of its own sumptuous destitute world which is thinner than paper, which is air itself, air from the country of someone else's mouth, oh my beautiful mailman, I would, I would.
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Love and Death
I love sitting here opposite you in our underwear, talking about death. We sip our tea together after making love on your all-encompassing couch, and I assert there really is no death, there is only life, which has no opposite because it is all-encompassing. We hug and kiss some more and you tell me about your sister-in-law's mother who recently died of pancreatic cancer. It took three months, you say. She was fine one day and the next in so much pain that three hours of that kind of pain, not to mention three days or three weeks or three months would be more than you or I or anyone in the world should have to bear. I lean over and give you a peck, and go into the kitchen to make more tea. I stand there looking at the flame for a long time— maybe three minutes—before the water starts to boil.
Poetry endangers the established order  of the soul - Plato

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