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"More than whispers, less than rumors" by Bob Hicok

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? July 11, 2019 The river is high. I’d love to smoke pot with the river. I’d love it if

[View this email on a browser]( [Forward to a friend]( [facebook-icon]( [tumblr-icon]( [twitter-icon]( July 11, 2019 [More than whispers, less than rumors]( [Bob Hicok]( The river is high. I’d love to smoke pot with the river. I’d love it if rain sat at my table and told me what it’s like to lick Edith Piaf’s grave. I go along thinking I’m separate from trash day and the weird hairdo my cat wakes up with but I am of the avalanche as much as I am its tambourine. The river is crashing against my sleep like it took applause apart and put it back together as a riot of wet mouths adoring my ears, is over my head when it explains string theory and affection to me, when it tells me to be the code breaker, not the code. What does that mean? Why does lyric poetry exist? When will water open its mouth and tell us how to be clouds, how to rise and morph and die and flourish and be reborn all at the same time, all without caring if we have food in our teeth or teeth in our eyes or hair in our soup or a piano in our pockets, just play the damned tune. The river is bipolar but has flushed its meds, I’m dead but someone has to finish all the cheese in the fridge, we’re a failed species if suction cups are important, if intelligence isn’t graded on a curve, but if desperation counts, if thunderstorms are the noise in our heads given a hall pass and rivers swell because orchestras aren’t always there when we need them, well then, I still don’t know a thing. [Like this on Facebook]( [Share via Twitter]( Copyright © 2019 Bob Hicok. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on July 11, 2019, by the Academy of American Poets. [Hicok reads "More Than Whispers, Less Than Rumors."]( About This Poem “On my desk I keep a rusted railroad spike. I picked it up walking to school the same day wings started growing from my back. My mother sat me down that morning and explained that my father was a hawk. Unsure if I was of Earth or sky, the railroad spike was heavy and carrying it seemed to answer the question for a while. As my wings grew, the principle told me I had to decide if I was a boy or a bird. I hadn't noticed before that some people need everyone to be the same, and realized I could tell him I was a boy but go on being a boy and a bird. The railroad spike is dented where it was repeatedly struck by a hammer. While writing, I often look at it to remind myself that my favorite things are rusty and beaten. Just look in the mirror.” —Bob Hicok [Bob Hicok]( Bob Hicok is the author of nine poetry collections, including most recently Hold (Copper Canyon, 2018). He teaches at Virginia Tech and lives in Virginia. [more-at-poets]( [Hold]( Poetry by Hicok [Hold]( (Copper Canyon, 2018) "A Human of Mars, 36" by Lyn Hejinian [read-more]( "Moon Seen Through Windshield" by Carl Adamshick [read-more]( "This Morning, This First Poem" by Afaa Michael Weaver [read-more]( July Guest Editor: Paul Guest Thanks to [Paul Guest](, author of Because Everything Is Terrible (Diode Editions, 2018), who curated Poem-a-Day for this month’s weekdays. Read a [Q&A with Guest]( about his curatorial approach this month and find out more about our [guest editors for the year.]( [make a one-time donation]( [illustration]( [Small-Blue-RGB-poets.org-Logo]( Thanks for being a part of the Academy of American Poets community. To learn about other programs, including National Poetry Month, Poem in Your Pocket Day, the annual Poets Forum, and more, visit [Poets.org](. You are receiving this e-mail because you elected to subscribe to our mailing list. If you would like to unsubscribe, please click [here](. © Academy of American Poets 75 Maiden Lane, Suite 901, New York, NY 10038

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