Sandra Beasley

All can be measured by the standard of the capybara. Everyone is lesser than or greater than the capybara. Everything is taller or shorter than the capybara. Everything is mistaken for a Brazilian dance craze more or less frequently than the capybara. Everyone eats greater or fewer watermelons than the capybara. Everyone eats more or less bark. Everyone barks more than or less than the capybara, who also whistles, clicks, grunts, and emits what is known as his

After Erik Satie For an hour I forgot my fat self, my neurotic innards, my addiction to alignment. For an hour I forgot my fear of rain. For an hour I was a salamander shimmying through the kelp in search of shore, and under his fingers the notes slid loose from my belly in a long jellyrope of eggs that took root in the mud. And what would hatch, I did not know— a lie. A waltz. An apostle of glass. For an hour I stood on two legs and ran. For an hour I panted and galloped. For an hour I was a maple tree, and under the summer of his fingers the notes seeded and winged away

We must not look for poetry in poems. —Donald Revell You must not skirt the issue wearing skirts. You must not duck the bullet using ducks. You must not face the music with your face. Headbutting, don’t use your head. Or your butt. You must not use a house to build a home, and never look for poetry in poems. In fact, inject giraffes into your poems. Let loose the circus monkeys in their skirts. Explain the nest of wood is not a home at all, but a blind for shooting wild ducks. Grab the shotgun by its metrical butt; aim at your Muse’s quacking, Pringled face. It’s good we’re talking like this, face to face. There should be more headbutting over poems. Citing an 80s brand has its cost but honors the teenage me, always in skirts, showing my sister how to Be the Duck with a potato-chip beak. Take me home, Mr. Revell. Or make yourself at home in my postbellum, Reconstruction face— my gray eyes, my rebel ears, all my ducks in the row of a defeated mouth. Poems were once civil. But war has torn my skirts off at the first ruffle, baring my butt

We gaze into your eyes, eyes, eyes, eyes. We forget the display is blind. Your fanned tail really a cupped palm, gathering each hen’s quiver to your ear, your feathers the green-blue glamours of reflective absence. No one ever praises the ass of the peacock, grin of quills that does the heavy lifting, or how you eat anything from ants to Styrofoam, from cheese to chicken. Road roamer, flower devourer: the one who’ll pick a fight with a goat. Preen all you want. What I love of you will be the bare undercarriage, the calamus. I am done with beauty. Only a blinking eye can measure the light.

The Traveler’s Vade Mecum, line 4234 Baking two parts flour to one part water could stop a bullet. So good soldiers carried their hardtack over their hearts. Break it down with a rifle butt, flood it, fry it in pig fat to make hellfire stew. Gnaw it raw and praise the juice. Does wheat prepare for this as it grows, seeking the light in a half-thawed field? Do stalks know their strength is merely in their number? What is ground down we name flour in promise that it will be made useful. Otherwise, it’s just dust. Sheet iron crackers. Teeth-dullers. Would you call it starving, if a man dies with hardtack still tucked in his pocket? Can you call it food, if the bullet comes only at the moment he gives in and swallows?

The Traveler’s Vade Mecum, line 907 The exhibition opened on a rainy Thursday, with cello suite. They hung the paintings to be viewed from both front and back. Luna moths flapped their great green sail-wings. Stingrays flapped their great gray sail-wings. Those visiting the exhibition were encouraged to touch. Captions were available in Braille and audio. The exhibition tasted like cherries. A critic asked if the exhibition was a “facile juxtaposition of   ideals.” The mother of the exhibition calls constantly and the father, never. The exhibition has taken to pouring a little scotch in the coffee. When designing layout, remember it is crucial how a bias cut fits at the exhibition’s hips and foot traffic turns to the right, not the left. They hung the sculptures to be viewed from both above and below. They painted the walls a shade of “eggshell, minus calcium.” The exhibition did not consider itself an exhibitionist until the incident at the east window. The exhibition is very sorry and will refund upon request. Stingrays flapped their great gray sail-wings. Luna moths flapped their great green sail-wings. No matter how short a trip, the exhibition packs two pairs of shoes. The exhibition never knows when it is coming home again.