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Peter Mishler

Tenor

Piece of quartz on his way to choir,

forehead holding the coldest sun,

no one can see you disappear your talismans: 

 

out of your parka, into the bowl,

you relinquish a single section of fruit 

from the food pyramid,

your offering. 

 

Then for an hour on felted risers 

beneath a vaulted ceiling

you’re made to sing the Kyrie: 

 

have mercy on every plane that has vanished, 

mercy on every waterfall

that drops from the office mezzanines 

 

in parts per million

onto the trees and earth and men and beasts 

as equally as our mild hearts are equal. 

 

When singing you’re told to fold your hands. 

When singing you’re told to round your lips 

to make the shape of a well. 

 

In the dark of your mouth 

I know you are saving

an orb of your human spit. 

 

Little silver thought,

you changeling,

protector of the snowscape

walking the wet retaining wall to your house at dusk, 

 

the history of your private life has begun.

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Peter Mishler is the author of Fludde (Sarabande Books, 2018), which won the Kathryn A. Morton Prize in Poetry.

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Bear Review

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3.2

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