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
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.