You are here

Timothy Ree

Timothy Ree
I Say Now These Are The Soul

How the hell it got here, in the apartment, behind
             this ugly couch we're so tired of looking at—the leg.

                                       

Imagine the rest of it, the rest of them naked, bald—
             mannequins in the room, seated by old typewriters,
clicking word by slow word, late into the night.

                                       

Once, in a show on TV—up past midnight when I had
             the chance—the horror wasn't the dark curly wig,
but the slow strange crawl across the kitchen floor.

                                       

How parts of us move, grow, in spite of us detach—
              like mercy, or the idea of mercy, withheld from those
who need it most.

                                       

A kaleidoscope the size of a finger, forgotten toy—
             looking through it to blood cells, to flowers on fire,
the inner dome of a cathedral, to stars.

                                       

All I see now is a landscape of bone, as in Where, where
              were you pointing, abba? Where exactly?


                                       

My favorite blue yo-yo, O the moves I'd master:
             the loop-the-loop, the sleeper—the dreamer become
a dog on a leash, become a baby in a cradle, rocking—

                                       

The flying saucer. Or the man on a flying trapeze,
             had I practiced enough, had we not outgrown wonder—
the Eiffel Tower made of string.

                                       

Remember grinning, first time flipping through the legend,
             I whispered No, a headless horse—or a horse with a missing leg.

                                       

In The Seventh Seal, how the knight stares at his hand,
             same hand with which he has, for now, evaded Death—
at chess, what else?—

                                       

That he can move it, that he can move it at will—
             miracle enough.

                                       

We left it for you—the leg by the curb. We slipped it
             between two garbage bags.



Timothy Ree lives in Brooklyn, New York, where he teaches literature and writing at a public high school. He holds a BA in English from Wheaton College (IL) and an M.Div from Yale University, and is currently at work on his first manuscript.



S M T W T F S
 
 
 
 
 
1
 
2
 
3
 
4
 
5
 
6
 
7
 
8
 
9
 
10
 
11
 
12
 
13
 
14
 
15
 
16
 
17
 
18
 
19
 
20
 
21
 
22
 
23
 
24
 
25
 
26
 
27
 
28
 
29
 
30
 
31