Vanessa Couto Johnson
We can’t meet as soon as desired. There are things neither my fault nor issue, and I respond with a meditation on the Paleolithic, my hunter-gatherer skin waiting for yours in a society of Euros. Being human is paradox. I like to watch what I eat, counting its legs. But I contribute to renting a car, go from Dublin to Galway and then past, where I eat fresh oysters each day. I listen with my mouthful of blobs. The landscape alters its repetition. A beach with hyperbole of jellyfish. Hills that could harbor the pterodactyl. I am not looking for a past or a future, but music threads them together, a string-tug that folds me. Time-short, we contact, planning to meet at the gates, gates by a bridge and water so silver that trees tarnish.
If Italians saw this, they’d be horrified…This is Irish lasagna…Oh, I forgot the baby potatoes. It’s still Irish, still your conception, with the factor of ginger. I grate it like I’m scratching its side, itch dissolving fibrously. I press cheese into shreds. We cohere in saying, The more cheese, the better, the bowl with a pale mountain. It lessens as you create strata, the platter of edible geology heating in a rectangular universe. Tectonic secured in the oven. We shift upstairs. You need your head and face clean-shaven because your body will be painted tomorrow. I help, examining from angles. And when I’m on the other side of the world, I will find particles of your hair on me. Skin abducts smithereens. But for now, I’m removing the platter from the oven prematurely. I set it down, understanding place, unsure what to do about time.
About the author:
Vanessa Couto Johnson earned her MFA from Texas State University. She is listed as a Highly Commended Poet for the 2014 Gregory O’Donoghue International Poetry Prize. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Little Patuxent Review, Eratio, Hot Metal Bridge, 100 Word Story, Word Riot, and elsewhere. She runs treksift, blogs here, and has a BA in both English and philosophy from Rice University