Fingers deep in the fur
Three animalistic poems
Considered carefully, as William Blake recognized in “The Tyger,” the creatures with which we share the condition of animality provoke more questions than answers — as do the following three Issue Seventeen poems, which stage encounters with beings of bone, fur, and whatever jellyfish are made of.
“To reconstruct the animal” | Poetry
CARMEN GALLO
To reconstruct the animal
from the promises it was
capable of keeping. And forget.
Not from the bones it left behind
but from its tracks retreating.
From how it ran. Simple shape.
The inner story and the outer.
Whoever runs loses. Whoever runs
vanishes, taking everything with them.
Whoever stays learns to hide. To be nothing.
To concoct theories. Nothing happens
to those who disappear.
Translated from the Italian by Will Schutt
LILY GABAREE
In later days I felt
a fragility I heard
dogs I was little twigs
lying there ready to break
I tell my body to wake
there is a happy bounding dog with a big stick extra long and the dog is jumping
and its man twirls and I heard a cough
sun breaks the tree and I am
almost leaves almost sheer the dog runs the grass coated light he gets it
the dog lies down he rolls his man with his fingers deep in the fur twirling
almost me too I could feel it
me and the tree shadow me and the loam me and this little passing pug
I love the neighborhood I love the grass the trees the clinking playground the
queer girls and their bikes
I was here anyway
Travel, Goals, Experiments | Poetry
MELANIE JENNINGS
Travel
The jellyfish lay flat on the beach, wiped out from the journey. First, she was in Japan, then Ecuador, now here, somewhere south of Tijuana, judging by the tide’s flavor. There’d been an earthquake recently, and another on the way. She tasted that too, an ashy note. Jellyfish are terrific gourmands, something most people don’t know. Real connoisseurs some of them. Her mother, a Peruvian by birth, made a habit of following the tides for apples and pears. Her father preferred seabirds. The jellyfish? A shark woman. Tastes like steak. She hopes to find some here. That’s part of why she came. That and anxiety.
Goals
The jellyfish hit Send on the job application, hoping for the best. Long-range missile engineer would be a stretch, but a good stretch, she thought, for her skill set. There were already over one hundred applications, but the jellyfish’s friend, a starfish who worked in quality at the plant, had contacted the hiring manager on the jellyfish’s behalf. Now it was a matter of waiting, another ninja-level skill of the jellyfish’s. She had progressively responsible experience over the past several decades, tons of projects she could point to with successful outcomes, patience her primary virtue. Plus, she blew things up effortlessly and that seemed like the best qualification of all.
Experiments
The jellyfish let her tentacles unfold and lay atop the waves on a sunny afternoon, for once relaxing a little. She took deep breaths and savored the smell of a happy day on the beach — bonfires, women’s perfume, blackberries. “Striving’s for gloomy days,” her crab friend always says. “And thinking like The Man.” But it’s easy for her, the jellyfish thinks. After all, she’s covered in a tough, barbed shell. Whereas the jellyfish is vulnerable. Transparent. Floppy. She must always be watchful or end up a snack, swallowed down in a gulp by hungry predators. Still, the crab’s way sounds better. Stop pushing so hard. Stop striving. The jellyfish is going to try it. Just for a few minutes.
