Two Poems//E.C. Messer




Under the green concave

of a chiton shell—

palm, hand, frond


                                (palm-cross turning crisp

                                 too long after Palm Sunday)


I lean in:


                                  (same palm pressed against

                                 the face of a nephrite boulder)


a cabochon,

a chest of gold


into a knob of pyrite,

close as a nutshell.


                                    (Somewhere in the symphony

                                     a piccolo exhales.)













How does such

a brief body


hold so much

information, Boris—


where do the extra

conjugations go?


How you learned



from the man who turned

Milan Kundera

into English.


I keep my knowledge

in my chest and thighs,


where there’s room;


a minor library, but

I’ve got reserves—


a way to want

this Golem of a world.



                                         for Boris Dralyuk

E.C. Messer lives in the sunniest part of San Francisco with her husband and five cats, one of whom has a bionic heart. Follow her on Twitter @ecmesser. She would like very much to know you.