Poem by Gibson Fay-LeBlanc
Edited by Christopher Seid
Artwork by David Wolfe wolfeeditions.com/
One never says exactly what one means.
One does not know what it is to mean, except
when finding the quotient of the sum of some
numbers divided by the number of them.
The mean of sparrow and swallow is marrow.
If one adds hope to the equation, it becomes
harrow. Still, one and one and one is still
a fallow addition. To swallow a sparrow
is my only hope. To watch some sweetspire
in a meadow, knowing my chances are narrow.
Gibson Fay-LeBlancs poems have appeared in Blackbird, the New Republic, and the anthology From the Fishouse: An Anthology of Poems That Sing, Rhyme, Resound, Syncopate, Alliterate, and Just Plain Sound Great. He is currently the executive director of the Telling Room, in Portland. There are as many types of poems as there are kinds of music. Sometimes I like a poem to be a little homemade box of sound, like this one. But Id never want to lose the poem that tells a great story or the smart discursive poem, just as Id never want to have to choose between jazz and hip-hop, a lyrical folk song, and an overpowering aria.