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Archive for the ‘Raphael Matto’ Category

Poem 16, Raphael Matto

In poetry, Raphael Matto on July 31, 2011 at 2:21 pm

Yes, there is dark matter here on Earth.

There’s dark matter in my basketball
(we fill our tires with it). There is a little
in number 2 pencils, pupils,
and under the doormat (that’s why
I can’t hear you from the garden).

The librarian is mostly dark matter —
she tends the large patch
hanging over the gas station
(sometimes birds fly into it).

There’s dark matter in the pills
cardiologists prescribe,
in my cousin’s yellow lunchbox,
(her mouse-hole),
the sink in the girls bathroom,
and our dusty math books.

Simon’s dad stamps it off his boots.

There’s dark matter in the reflection
of my co-worker’s wedding ring,

which has us both
taking careful steps backward.

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Photo 15, Raphael Matto

In photography, Raphael Matto on July 30, 2011 at 4:03 pm

Poem 15, Raphael Matto

In poetry, Raphael Matto on July 29, 2011 at 10:50 pm

The dog who saw color

Electrocuted by a cow fence —
chased by pain, Sam
crashes down the slope.

At rest, he reaches out,
holds a brown trunk with green leaves,
and stands, naked, scared,

spinning on the wheel, pushed
by long waves that wash
blues across his lobe, then reds —

phantoms only men should see.

Photo 14, Raphael Matto

In photography, Raphael Matto on July 28, 2011 at 10:15 pm

Poem 14, Raphael Matto

In poetry, Raphael Matto on July 27, 2011 at 11:50 pm

“I don’t care what your mom thinks,”
the computer said.

I saw wires glowing in its throat
and the fans were spinning.

The computer was my height
with curly red hair

and a strong, strong smile.
I let it borrow a pair of togs

and we threw off our shirts
and crashed through the river

towards the reservoir.
The new computer ran faster

than my old one (I’d raced them
in a clover field the week before).

Mother was bored when I told her:
“How can you want new stuff

when the world is globally this-ing
and that-ing? Get a dog, or a book.”

“Books are made from trees.”
“I’m sure computers are made from trees too.”

I thought about my old computer —
barefoot in a blue dress,

typing out a message on the trail behind us.
There was a tab key in the grass —

cracked, almost lost — the day I raced them.
“So? I’m not made to last,” it flushed, shrugged,

“Neither are you.”

Photo(s) 13, Raphael Matto

In photography, Raphael Matto on July 26, 2011 at 10:31 pm

Poem 13, Raphael Matto

In poetry, Raphael Matto on July 26, 2011 at 12:03 am

Wives

I

Barney rummages through the cutlery drawer
until he finds his wife, under a fork.
He holds her legs and stirs his porridge.

II

Tiny white wife in a basket,
hanging by her fingers from the clothes line;
it’s a sunny day.

III

Folded in half, a wife
eases into an envelope like it’s a tub —
she licks the stamp herself.

IV

All my wife’s aprons
folded into cranes in the back yard,
stiff with starch.

V

A wife drifting in her dress —
we watch her from business class,
silhouetted, blow towards better things.

VI

Chimney sweeps shoo them from rooftops,
their noisy hems flap, falling past fire
escapes.

VII

The weather and mail and milk and door
men, they all take notice.
although

VIII

Fred lifts up his newspaper,
looks across the room and discovers
his wife has been gone for years.

Photo 12, Raphael Matto

In photography, Raphael Matto on July 24, 2011 at 9:42 pm

Poem 12, Raphael Matto

In poetry, Raphael Matto on July 23, 2011 at 10:58 pm

It was begging day
in the dome,

a hot day of horse wars.
The dust hung

on the huge TV, a replay
of arms twining —

the embrace
of the new gelding.

A frothy splurge of rage
and then lack of rage.

Photo(s) 11, Raphael Matto

In photography, Raphael Matto on July 22, 2011 at 11:00 pm