Frances Justine Post grew up on Sullivan’s Island, outside of Charleston, South Carolina. She received an M.F.A. in poetry from Columbia University’s School of the Arts. She is the recipient of a 2008 “Discovery” / The Boston Review Poetry Prize judged by Jorie Graham, Reginald Shepherd, and James Tate, as well as the 2006 Amy Award from Poets & Writers Magazine. Her poems have appeared, or are forthcoming, in The Boston Review, The Massachusetts Review, Seneca Review, Quarterly West, Western Humanities Review, and others. She lives in Manhattan.

Image credit: courtesy of the artist

 

Twinspeak

Hold our feet, our four that are not fingers.
We so like to be petted. We’ve been missing

you. We sick, gray, would like a distillation
of all experience we might miss so better

to make the decision. What we’re after is
I want a boat-ride. I want Alaska. Everywhere

is full of greenery; the difference is the sea
level but how are we to divide. We saw

the hawk perched on the thrush — still flying
however pinioned — and did nothing.

This means that we identified. So who
the hawk and who the thrush. No one wants

to be the hawk but otherwise the equation
would not work. Won’t you join us. With you

coming around the stars must necessarily scratch
the sky, meaning we are still, the rest keeps moving.

We’ll take the blue from your eyes and give it away
so we are more alike. Hold us first in your way,

with warmth and a certain ambiguity. We’ll quiet
then we’ll not. We’ll speak in the singular.