The Complete Stories
By Noah Warren
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The Complete Stories - Noah Warren
Wall Mice
There are two piles of documents: the one on the right
has to become the one on the left.
There is a paperweight in the shape of a whale.
Some pages have almost nothing on them, maybe
eight words floating in eggshell space.
They have to be read too,
so I do, I drift over them.
Once I used to wear a fancy belt buckle,
a cabin in cameo on a bright black field.
My left thumb would circle the oval as I wrote.
I miss that buckle. And I miss the dog
that slept in bed with us for six years, always nearer to me—you
curled toward the wall, me in the middle. I’d try not to wake
either of you when I got up at four to pee.
You were the slope of a shoulder,
the glow of heat beside me, and I could love that.
The brewery smell wafts in the open window, tangled
rot and freshness. Also jasmine, and cut grass.
When someone dies, their fears disappear
and the luster goes from their treasures
just like that. The accurate watch, the binoculars,
the stag-handled knife, the silver whiskey cup
that great-grandfather won at the county horse race in 1902
with a quick quarter-mile. Look what you’ve done,
it’s your bed, said my mother
to my father, who was trying to get up
off the floor, reeking of Listerine.
A sharp rustling, like sycamore leaves
moving against each other.
In a previous draft, I was able to imagine you rising
to walk around the city at the same time I felt the need to walk,
or setting down a glass of water as I picked one up.
In a previous draft, I understood myself
as a man who preferred to write
on cocktail napkins, because they’d tear if he got too invested.
In that one, I kept my father apart from my loneliness.
You know this: there was a time
when I hung large silver gelatin photographs of glaciers
on the walls of my bedroom.
I was able to sleep like that.
They were my father’s photographs. When I was small, he’d talk
for hours about the different kinds of ice,
about glaciers, and how they calved.
I loved that.
I could feel it. I felt the huge jewels falling into me.
Rustling Mind
You lay in the marram grass,
and read, and pedaled down to the wharf
at Havre Boucher where the salvage barge
hung groaning by its hawsers.
You sat on a bollard, you stared.
Gum in your stomach—
summer rotted away.
Night. You found yourself
walking slowly through your neighborhood.
In that window, you saw once
the perfect torso—smooth nave
of the rib