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Monsters + MMoCA: A Response to Talking Continents

A compilation of poems by Monsters of Poetry, in response to Jaume Plensa: Talking Continents. Poets are Derrick Austin, Kara Candito, Nick Demske, Marcela Fuentes, Matthew Guenette, and Dantiel Moniz.

A compilation of poems by Monsters of Poetry, in response to Jaume Plensa: Talking Continents. Poets are Derrick Austin, Kara Candito, Nick Demske, Marcela Fuentes, Matthew Guenette, and Dantiel Moniz.

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<strong>Talking</strong> Poem<br />

Sometimes we mistake<br />

Grace for defiance<br />

Like holding hands<br />

It feels good<br />

Or flimsy or booms I supposed<br />

I’m undecided<br />

So for those who are undecided<br />

Who have kept open the door<br />

Been candle<br />

Or companion—<br />

Let us forget who’s in charge<br />

Let us let this night<br />

Have its way<br />

Let us break for those gone missing<br />

And for the just-released<br />

To Santiago who abhors<br />

Au<strong>to</strong>correct but when it suggests<br />

“t-shorts” for “t-shirts”<br />

He says it’s on <strong>to</strong> something.<br />

I want <strong>to</strong> linger in<br />

The list and listing<br />

The punch and the senses just after<br />

Says Emma who speaks<br />

With her hands nervously<br />

I don’t know about any of this<br />

Except thank you, yes, let us press<br />

Our palms in<strong>to</strong> flames<br />

I <strong>to</strong>o have felt<br />

Like I’m being squeezed<br />

In<strong>to</strong> some other’s maddening machine—<br />

When if ever will we be let out?<br />

Will we return<br />

To our original shapes?<br />

For those who’ve been stunned<br />

In<strong>to</strong> mistakes, in<strong>to</strong> silence or busy<br />

In<strong>to</strong> an umbrella or tiger or cricket<br />

Or dream or chase or cage.<br />

In department meetings on the backs<br />

Of memos I write “Jesus”<br />

Write “wow!”<br />

Write “I’d rather die”<br />

Then I feel better<br />

Like when I said <strong>to</strong> my daughter “If you plan<br />

To do cartwheels, please put on<br />

Some pants!” I knew I’d become<br />

My mother.<br />

We all turn in<strong>to</strong> something else<br />

So let us note which gods we descend from<br />

Or not. Let us foster and willow<br />

Let us yes yes<br />

Let us unfaze<br />

Let me tell you this: one night<br />

After dinner I got down on my knees,<br />

Cleaned barfed-up hot-dog chunks from the rug<br />

In my son’s room<br />

And knew I was lucky.<br />

Knew winter light is the most beautiful<br />

Sometimes at least<br />

To those in the midst of<br />

Or delighted <strong>to</strong><br />

To Phou in her sister’s furry moon boots<br />

She walked through the slush<br />

To be here in<br />

I’m learning <strong>to</strong> stand,<br />

Same as yesterday<br />

Trying <strong>to</strong> get better at uncertainty<br />

To those going in<strong>to</strong> the world<br />

Or coming in from it<br />

Welcome: for a short while<br />

We’ll go <strong>to</strong>gether.<br />

—Matthew Guenette<br />

MATTHEW GUENETTE is the author of three full-length poetry collections: Vasec<strong>to</strong>mania (2017, U of Akron Press),<br />

American Busboy (2011, U of Akron Press) and Sudden Anthem (2008, Dream Horse Press). He lives, works, and loses sleep<br />

in Madison, WI.

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