poetry by glenn short

Holy-day weekend

Someone asks me the time and I don’t have it.
I don’t have a watch,
I don’t notice the trajectory nor phase of
the rising moon behind me
that I might see if I could just look in the right place.
I could.

I can’t ever hear my compass tick.
I miss the bus by about two minutes with a regular beat, an organic talent.
I cross the street.

What is Esther’s ETA now? She said soon, but
that feels like a while ago now. I look at my naked wrist.
I look up the street
and down. Will she be north- or southbound,
I forget?

I try to listen very hard, maybe to catch the
faintest echo of applause
rising through the city when she arrives.
Could I?

I just hear cars. I hear the air right in front of my ear

Glenn Short is a poet, educator, and little queer bard with a jester hat. Born in Cincinnati OH, they now live in Chicago. They love language, ecocritical works, and the smell of libraries and archives. Glenn’s favorite projects are interdisciplinary— they love the funky, unexpected results when different registers of language collide. When not working, they’re most likely listening to Björk or cooking up a meal.