SurVision Magazine / Alan Elyshevitz

Mouth

It's true, we have paid too much attention to our mouths.
—Marvin Bell, "The Perfection of Dentistry"

At high elevation and low humidity,
your lips crack and can't whistle for help.
You appear to be alone and limbless.
God or some accident made you this way,
so the mouth is your only tool.
But your words lack breadth.
Flawless enamel does you no good.
Nothing comes out. What goes in
depends upon rescue, depends upon
another's resourcefulness. If you're
fortunate, chateaubriand or someone
else's tongue. If not, a sandwich four
days old or breathless high-altitude wind.
Or nothing, nothing at all.

Nosebleed

On the last day of March, spring is aborted.
Like blowflies, clouds attend the autopsy

of the sun. This city suffers from a neckache
of traffic law. Too many museums, not enough

analgesics. In a sacrosanct lobby, we wait
for Him, the interior dimmed to offset

our blemishes. Wedding rings wobble
on dieting fingers. While bits of talk sprinkle

through the lower ranks, someone, whose job
is to box-cut candor from government,

whispers into glass. At last I am beckoned
with notes and questions. Today He wants to talk

about Easter when He plans to join the PGA tour
and send children to Honduras for dental work.

Outside His window, the new Hall of Justice,
built in the knee-replacement style, caps

the discolored bones of the city. He leans back
to watch the clouds lean back, those tissues

in the nose of the sky. No man nor god can
accomplish much with gravity's blood on his shoes.

Alan Elyshevitz is from East Norriton, Pennsylvania, USA. He is the author of a collection of stories, The Widows and Orphans Fund (SFA Press), a full-length poetry collection, Generous Peril (Cyberwit), and four poetry chapbooks, most recently Mortal Hours (SurVision Books, 2021). Winner of the James Tate Poetry Prize and James Hearst Poetry Prize from North American Review, he is a two-time recipient of a fellowship in fiction writing from the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts.

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An international online magazine that publishes Surrealist poetry in English. Issue Thirteen ALAN ELYSHEVITZ Mouth It's true, we have paid too much attention to our mouths. —Marvin Bell, "The Perfection of Dentistry" At high elevation and low humidity, your lips crack and can't whistle for help. You appear to be alone and limbless. God or some accident made you this way, so the mouth is your only tool. But your words lack breadth. Flawless enamel does you no good. Nothing comes out. What goes in depends upon rescue, depends upon another's resourcefulness. If you're fortunate, chateaubriand or someone else's tongue. If not, a sandwich four days old or breathless high-altitude wind. Or nothing, nothing at all. Nosebleed On the last day of March, spring is aborted. Like blowflies, clouds attend the autopsy of the sun. This city suffers from a neckache of traffic law. Too many museums, not enough analgesics. In a sacrosanct lobby, we wait for Him, the interior dimmed to offset our blemishes. Wedding rings wobble on dieting fingers. While bits of talk sprinkle through the lower ranks, someone, whose job is to box-cut candor from government, whispers into glass. At last I am beckoned with notes and questions. Today He wants to talk about Easter when He plans to join the PGA tour and send children to Honduras for dental work. Outside His window, the new Hall of Justice, built in the knee-replacement style, caps the discolored bones of the city. He leans back to watch the clouds lean back, those tissues in the nose of the sky. No man nor god can accomplish much with gravity's blood on his shoes. Alan Elyshevitz is from East Norriton, Pennsylvania, USA. He is the author of a collection of stories, The Widows and Orphans Fund (SFA Press), a full-length poetry collection, Generous Peril (Cyberwit), and four poetry chapbooks, most recently Mortal Hours (SurVision Books, 2021). Winner of the James Tate Poetry Prize and James Hearst Poetry Prize from North American Review, he is a two-time recipient of a fellowship in fiction writing from the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts.
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