Issue 13

Autumn 2014


Nose in a Spoon: An Acrostic

for I.C.

Noses are imperfect like writing
on unlined paper. Things may start out
straight, but everything gets skewed by the
end. Last Tuesday night, at two o’clock, I stopped
in the middle of reading an Ashbery poem, which was
not about anything in particular, and caught and tossed
a handful of crickets out the kitchen door. They arched over the

second floor fire escape, flashing white as the light hit them, antennae all
perfectly tapered wisps. I could have sworn it was really important to the poem, if
only in context. The arc, the light, the strangeness of the image. But in the cloudy drizzle
of morning (mourning?), I know only that someone is gone from the world and I will
never see his face again, except when I dream of mirrors like rows of spoons.


Ellie White