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2 poems by Lillian Necakov

Blue Matter

Those blue-blue dogs, cerulean, azure-tongued in their night sweaters

as if god had moved the sky for them

those rough beasts, turned futile by empirical formulas

minus water in the cornflower afternoons

wandering through the broken down factories

as if, to reach heaven

peacock mutts, smash-ribbed, pawing the dirt

as if, to unearth a thunderous amen

as if, the night might spill over them like

a Prussian lullaby and they would be found

slumbering at last, through guilt’s sapphire echo.

After I Borrow Schopenhauer’s Goggles

The summer became a book

became a soft breeze

whistling through the sardine cans

read me, love me

a voice fat with gallons of words

boomeranging its way back to us

being and not being

the book became a knife

became a violin weeping

in the empty orchestra pit

hear me, believe me

the theory of chapters

composed on piano keys

made of fingernails

the paper became a petticoat

became a lover

flinging verbs out of the cockpit

into the mouths of ravenous nuns

wading bookless through 5 o’clock.


Lillian Necakov is the author of six books of poetry, numerous chapbooks, broadsides and

leaflets. Her new book il virus is forthcoming from Anvil Press (A Feed Dog Book). She ran the Boneshaker Reading series from 2010-2020. She lives in Toronto, Canada.


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