To whom it may concern or even interest slightly:
Hello. I am a many-limbed squid. I am a secondhand
fiddle with semi-new strings. I am an attic fan with a broken belt
in the bedroom that never gets used. I know
there is much to improve, but listen—once
I surprised my mother with a coral-colored cake. I made
her believe she was lucky, so let this speak
well of me. I can write the alphabet in a window pane
backwards with both hands and then tell you how long
the rain takes to erase it. I can say What a pleasure
even if it isn't. I can name unlabeled spices. I can hold
water in my palms the longest. I am a room full of fine
furniture, a hedge shorn into the shape of a lioness,
a pitcher fashioned for chrysanthemums. I have finished
my training in unflagging faith. I can burn and be
extraordinary, I swear.
From The Mackinac
How To Write A Poem
Think of a number between one
and the age you are now. It can be
an age you liked
or one you have forgotten.
Divide by the number of pennies
you’ve thrown into a well
or a fountain or a koi pond.
Multiply by the number
of airplanes you have flown on,
rivers you have swum in,
buttons you have lost, novels
you haven’t written but plan to
someday when the number of hours
increases. Add the number of canyons
you have crossed
alone and on foot or in the car
with your friends. Add the number
of miles you’ve driven since then.
Subtract the stubby birthday candles,
real whale sightings, any change
in your pockets. Round up
by the number
of seasons in the sea,
wallflowers in a garden,
bow-ties in a gentleman’s drawer,
minutes since the last thing
you’ll remember in twenty years.
Write it down if you need to
and think of that number.
The number you are thinking of
matches the branching of the trees
the tempo of a xylophone solo
and the spiral in the staircase
in the hallway in a quiet museum.
Sarah Suksiri reads
"The Translator," "Oh Darling, Let's Be More Adventurous," and "The Waters."