the national poetry month issue || fools

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University of Northern Iowa Fools Author(s): David Shumate Source: The North American Review, Vol. 292, No. 2, The National Poetry Month Issue (Mar. - Apr., 2007), p. 19 Published by: University of Northern Iowa Stable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25478869 . Accessed: 18/06/2014 16:29 Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at . http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp . JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range of content in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new forms of scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact [email protected]. . University of Northern Iowa is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to The North American Review. http://www.jstor.org This content downloaded from 91.229.248.104 on Wed, 18 Jun 2014 16:29:49 PM All use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions

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University of Northern Iowa

FoolsAuthor(s): David ShumateSource: The North American Review, Vol. 292, No. 2, The National Poetry Month Issue (Mar. -Apr., 2007), p. 19Published by: University of Northern IowaStable URL: http://www.jstor.org/stable/25478869 .

Accessed: 18/06/2014 16:29

Your use of the JSTOR archive indicates your acceptance of the Terms & Conditions of Use, available at .http://www.jstor.org/page/info/about/policies/terms.jsp

.JSTOR is a not-for-profit service that helps scholars, researchers, and students discover, use, and build upon a wide range ofcontent in a trusted digital archive. We use information technology and tools to increase productivity and facilitate new formsof scholarship. For more information about JSTOR, please contact [email protected].

.

University of Northern Iowa is collaborating with JSTOR to digitize, preserve and extend access to The NorthAmerican Review.

http://www.jstor.org

This content downloaded from 91.229.248.104 on Wed, 18 Jun 2014 16:29:49 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions

NAR

FRIEDRICH KERKSIECK

Letting the Poison Win

Eat the egg of the grackle, eat the membrane, the shell, the half-born featherless bird & any yolk attached to the corpse. Eat the lawn-mower clippings from the forest, chew the shorn hackberry limbs, the nightshade blooms cut 8c cut again, the creeping vines 8c torn dandelion stems. Eat the lead paint off the statue, crack your molars on the plaster 8c split your lips on the wire frame. Chaw 8c choke, hold the venom in the pit of your stomach, leave it there, let it crawl 8c let it wither through the veins. If only for the sake of the poison, let the poison win.

DAVID SHUMATE

Fools

I spend as much time as I can in the company of fools. I find their long digressions soothing. I like to dress in their tall stockings and conical hats. I stand as they sing their anthem at

sporting events. I've served as judge of their debate contest and awarded the trophy to the fool who illustrated infinity by blowing up a yellow balloon and releasing it so it sputtered around the room. Last week I invited the entire community of fools to my place for a hog roast. When

they arrived they removed their shoes and threw them up on the roof as is their custom. The accordions began to play and the fools all started bouncing around. But I made the mistake of

uncorking the champagne. I'd forgotten that when fools imbibe, their brows furrow and they become logical. They recite litanies of facts as if they were prayers. They fall asleep in mid sentence out of boredom. By dawn they usually sober up ar d the arm wrestling and hide-and seek resume. But there's always one who goes right on drin.<ing. He props a ladder against the

house and climbs up. Everyone's perplexed until he starts tossing their shoes back down.

ERINN BATYKEFER

First Boyfriend age sixteen

I remember his house. The grooves in the foyer's slate

cupping my feet. A lily bloom sighing open in a dish of water by the door with the mail. The kitchen's neat rows of nested celadon bowls. Cobalt spice jars in niches on the wall. Before I remember the soft, fraying seams of his T-shirts, the cotton washed to mesh, I remember the way everything in his living room?the red velveteen

sofa, the night-blooming cereus?glowed like an ember

under li^;ht thrown from a huge winged horse pawing a mat

by the wall: an old neon sign scavenged from the Mobil station's demolition. I remember the dining room; slats of yellow' light rising from the basement through original floorboards. I remember standing riveted in light like a cage; his hands taking their cue from the house, learning to undo me with small touches: light falling on my wrists and waist? I remem 3er his house. I remember empty rooms.

March-April 2007 NORTH AMERICAN REVIEW 19

This content downloaded from 91.229.248.104 on Wed, 18 Jun 2014 16:29:49 PMAll use subject to JSTOR Terms and Conditions