Allison Hummel

Mortal Weekend

 

The ground might rise

beneath you, like bread.

 

Things might descend

to meet you, as if

 

borne by the voice

of somebody very tall.

 

I might wish I had one

mortal weekend,

 

things like laundry

and coffee and ramen,

 

the dreamt-up shape

of Otto on the couch,

 

the dark low hills

of Brigitte Engerer’s hair;

 

she plays Schumann’s Carnaval.

I might wish something

 

engaged me like a fisherman’s

hook,

 

alternative to faith,

anathema to my cloudy wandering.

 

An inversion of need,

brought up like the wreck of a car

 

from a lake,

when metal cedes to

 

sloughing oxide

dust,

 

hair becomes liquid,

we become aged;

 

this is my dream

of what a nice summit

 

might look like.