EMILY PETTIT

HOW TO HIDE FROM ANOTHER
THE IMPATIENT CONVERSATIONALIST
HOW TO HIDE AN ELEPHANT

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HOW TO HIDE FROM ANOTHER

Identification kept in a lockbox. Identification

kept in a lost place. What surrounds that thing

that should be left alone? And what surrounds you?

Rain. You say you want some new weather.

You say you cannot help yourself. Swan in a sad swamp.

You are such an ambulance stuck in traffic.

Rope encased in plastic. I wear no identification.

I would prefer that I am not described or located.

You say you need a bridge.  I say we’ll get you a bridge.

What is the word for an order that makes sense?

You say you are traveling from place to place,

hoping to find a temporary delay. A departure

from reasoning. If you need a canyon, here’s a canyon.

Sometimes you leave something so that someone can find it

later. I know you don’t want an umbrella, but here’s an

umbrella. And here’s another umbrella. And another.

Another. Another.   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE IMPATIENT CONVERSATIONALIST                                                   

 

I said I could no longer tolerate the winter.
You said being washed is a difficult time in a tapestry's life.

I asked if you would say you loved peanuts.
You said embalming is coming back in vogue.

I told you that I think these zebra pens are as good as pens get.
You said you made a fool of yourself from time to time.

I asked if everyone is really entitled to his or her opinion.
You suggested a mantra.

I said there are no female sword swallowers left.
You said that the Etruscans loved Greek pottery and that they couldn't get
enough of it.

My hand's company is no fool, I said.
You asked, if I could name ten ways Scandinavian Death Metal has changed music
forever.

I said that I've had some of my best conversations with people from Georgia.
You said Ilhan thinks bow ties and monkey-suits are classy.

I said I had once had an imaginary friend named Templeton Jones.
Sycamore trees are fantastic you said.

How do you prepare yourself to feel rested by 6a.m. I asked.  
You said that 1989 was a good year for plastic bugs and that you had bought
dozens.

I said the other night I dreamt a red river ran through my hallway.
You said you did not know where capers come from.

I said, I believe in reasons.
Be like a duck, you said.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HOW TO HIDE AN ELEPHANT                                                                   

           
All over town footprints are flying. When walking

on tiptoes we ignite suspicious minds. Hovering,

hanging out nowhere near the ground.

I’m on my way to the end of the world again.

Thirteen red barns in a row. A story on the news.

A mouse has died in the wall. I have a box

full of porcupine quills. I have a box full of

tiny tools. A box full of bees. Becoming information

is not necessarily a choice. A chance meeting

is not necessarily enough to change things.

If your reflection went missing what would you do?

Feel like a spider who has forgotten how to weave

a web. Try to remember where you last leaned,

where you last left no trace. Here is a tiny elephant.

Put it in your pocket and it can be the elephant in the room

that no one ever talks about.