by Benjamin Bush Anderson

of all the hours’
orders, it is this
that yellows brainbone
this that weathers
forever shut the latch
at the centre of Spot

it’s a mean trick:
sheet music pinned
to my throat so
every breath I sing
mutes out around the pin

no sooner had the soul been 
dangled from the porthole 
like a strip of cloth it was 
torn in two no sooner
had it been torn
the halved soul re-
joiced for like two 
pups it could now 
playfight

narrower and na-
rrower until
the trap was 
sprung and 
from here on 
out the bones 
(white sticks in 
a hot bag) were n/a

hour-eyed turner
who fails to turn
in time turned
in the nick yet
won’t

for all my waltzing
in harm’s armlength
it is this that
halts me
this that
jags the needle
to cut song’s bleed

bad dog chews
on chain circles
its pole pull-
ing: pulling
and
each radius it
sprints into its 
perimeter
is articulated in 
a jar on the trachea

far cry from 
mutter’s warm 
jaw
hoisting 
whelpweight
by the scruff
of the neck

could it be this that
                              no 
        it cannot be
yet is

darkness closes in from out
like a double-hinged storm-
cellar door, the cyclone’s
circular blood rusts
your wrists your
stomach your
frontal lobe shut-
ting, shuts, sh-
ut

mutt’s breath 
an erased stave
songless, melodic
blank yet scored
like a cutting
board

after all
the happening
the summons
the fetching
was it this
that you / I
could have
sworn so

we
little lastlings
green apart
in the narrows

wind a leash, a lash
a weathervane turned
itself in turned itself 
inside out turned on 
itself like a harm-
bred cur

narrowing, we
                      hollow
                              out

---

Benjamin Bush Anderson is a poet and novelist born in Mi’kma’ki/Nova Scotia. He currently resides in Tiohtià:ke/Montréal, where he writes and pursues a living.

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