Quite Apart
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About this ebook
Quite Apart asks “what about after survival?” in a chronicle of attempts to have a heart in a rough world. Haunted by work and its wasted hours, the book offers a glimpse of self-rendered as subtext beneath the sheen of productivity. Inventive formal poems provide a kind of alibi, mirroring the inflexibility of the environment—driving through mountains, bleeding in alleys, losing keys in a bar parking lot—to allow some emotion to pass through, tenderness intact.
The action among forms of address moves across the sections from direct to readerly, to more distant, back to the last/lost sequence, and ultimately into an intimate direct address, which builds up a reserve of trust adequate to collapse the distance of a cool operator. Mediated by grammatical invention, the collection enacts the making of an authentic place and self, reckoning with difficult truths (failures, omissions) to arrive at a state of peace having weathered some storms. It returns to a core and singular perspective, a knowing eye, that captures absurdity and tragedy, the absurdity of tragedy, to find—beyond vigilance—a balance between acceptance and bucking, which is perhaps another name for love.
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Book preview
Quite Apart - Krystal Languell
Yau
Invocation
Poem for My Friend in Philadelphia
By the end of summer, all the decisions
& all the interring, the full shift to open
air will be complete. What it means. You
recall an old dog, muscle past concrete.
The elements conspire, eject their effluvia,
the burst zit of some creature ruins a nice
moment & we put our sunglasses on.
Show me that lighter thing again.
Poem for My Friend in Providence
Do you sometimes feel as if motherhood
is wielded against us? What used to gird me
changed. The big lightbulbs—one, two, three—
foreground honeycomb tiles. I wake up
with a start & nothing is wrong. A field is no
place to panic. The amulet of clarity you gave me:
what am I doing with it? Congratulations
never last. An amethyst at the beach. Your
needle & thread. We can die trying.
Poem for My Friend in Los Angeles
That you’ve found your name someplace
it doesn’t belong, I regret with you.
The scope of gratitude expands so wide
to pre-empt future criticism, inclusive
and ungenerous. And what part
of a list of names is afterthought?
Go alphabetical, camouflage hierarchy.
Didn’t you ring people up at Target
for 12 months to get onto a man’s margin?
I know you’re no feather.
Poem for My Friend in Montreal
Escalator. When carrots still taste sweet,
I know my tongue is clean. It’s official.
The paternoster at the Ministry spun
on its chain & I was too afraid to enter
its open compartments. Its beauty—
the frequency with which one can leap
off, cease rising (or descending). A
stomachache at Middlesex Guildhall.
A pause: English lavender with maple
& charcuterie on your terrace. A grief.
Poem for My Friend in Kansas
Are you waiting? The controlled experiment
can fail in spite of its correct plan. Next
time we’ll walk the downtown mall slowly.
You’ll inherit a lot of diamonds & I will
hang a shadow box displaying scrimshaw.
The gifts travel toward us right now &
you hear yours before you see it. That soft
putter—such a pure stone—is coming closer.
Poem for My Friend in Ohio
I am glad you were not found in a
pit this morning or any other morning
beneath the shed of a troubled white man
in your state. I am glad that we, you and I,
only get groped on the street