C.R. GRIMMER
Use Your WORD
In writing this, I read to you the book of If Not, Winter, fragment 3
to make smaller of wounds with
their dilators that train, loose
enough [train
large
muscles
like] candle wicks trimmed to glow like
the WORD
in the day
[hot
fear: inadequacy] yawns–
there is no me to
set the
wick.
pry it [O
there is–
please, let us in to]
it is open & yet still there
is no me
trimmed
wick for
a forehead flame. Open wide &
you know
how to use
the
WORD to let us into your
particulate &
smallest–
O
wick of it–
a there,
there & you can not
use the WORD.
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*** ** ***
O,
In writing this, I read to you the book of If Not, Winter, fragment 2
& “And Then the Horse Rips You Open” from Heather Napualani-Hodges
O I want inside to this smallest earbone
slicked & like steel hold
a bone which owes you longings. Can’t you
now hear? A form.
It’s delicate length enough to call tender
eyes or maybe it is more of a tongue tip
that teaches the difference: lobe & crevice fold
never open—
//
& yet it is you still you are loping to shoe
the horse. Can’t you now see it?
to punctuate walking–
[I &;—;&&&; —/ & ]
In the WORD are small submissions. You
could throat back saddled sound but
O you’re keeping with the smallest cleft
pressed.
Even Emily Dickinson had a Master
letters to him as small
submissions:
[Dearest Master
mine &—]
//
then Lucie Brock-Broido interrupts WORD as
hewing clothing & a skein for the salt skin
is dripping like red from curtains femurs leak
wrists try splitting
to open like want organs are leaning to weep
a long low you are loosening
to holy the WORD as—
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*** ** ***
My Widowed Self
In writing this, I read to you The Book of Ezekiel Chapter 24 vs. 15-27
I hate you & hyperbolic as the sun
I mean what language could groan
you to swallow & my esophagus still heaves say
how it sings of the leg & the shoulder &
failing to soften bones still you
tend to him his lefter side they lift & still you find ezekiel—
the dream does pause &
where could you write it? That may be when slipping on
stone you birthed the water prophecy & prayed & sat—
O fire did you see him dust-skinned tears
low-eyed sockets display them mourners
can swallow the city but you swallowed the WORD
heard him cry prophecy fed no mourners
to low just word upon word upon lord:
In the beginning, at least he had words or, well
admit it: you dreamt him deader than organs well
out of tune & singing still loosed new
like your tongue, like your name—
O
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*** ** ***
O,
In writing this, I read to you the book of If Not, Winter, fragment 1
& if I want life & O to want
to end (the WORD refused ends & gave) desiring
is to no end. Love basks in its re-
lay like a ship my
stream as her branch bending lists things
not to be: a glass wind
that can bend with her wake the WORD
branched me gaining
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*** ** ***
My Gradiva
In writing this, I read to you a poem by Heather Napualani Hodges, “And then the horse rips you open.” &, again
The Book of Ezekiel, Chapter 24 vs. 15-27
Tears are more curtain folds & splitting into sun
mourners meaning language clothes the night with a groan
Swords tipped with moon juice & other nonsense we say
mourners warbling at the foot of the salt water &
yourselves like three pine on a hill to
LORD is to imagine the curtain can be ripped like the grief of ezekiel.
Well, why did you always believe the curtain red?
didn’t he say it is finished?
News becomes feet silenced by water plaster some paint on
LORD as a word we utter & I tell you truly that sound sat
tore into bodies long dead from tears
mourners willing him to say it is birthed in the mourning
swords swallowed by the WORD
mourners verily & I say unto you LORD
you know that ripped curtain could not have been red well
what? You don’t believe me? You know well
news can whiten the dead like salt until they are new
as fish nets a plaster bust even some wood can split
your obsessions into her: a here, & here, & here, & here, &
just stop making her walk already a reddening
I know you want
to be with the mourners but verily I say unto you:
O
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*** ** ***
O,
In writing this, I read to you the book of If Not, Winter, fragment 1
Wanting O the begging of relation
ship is shaped desire: half my face how
it is standing long wall
is dripping against
effaced rock. O one who has want
your pine & water carve
my asking for you inside my
smallest ear bone slicked
over by steel. The WORD knew every
small mole particular arched bone—
even a snake grows a cheek
to lisp air—
please my finger fumbles. Press crow
feet to a closing eye
and show me (face to face) how to turn there’s a page
(face to face) & you call for me—
the WORD becomes page upon page upon page upon—
& what I want to want: my own small mouth
but it’s yours whole swallows murmur shame (face to face)
the mouth has folds along its sides snake jaws
hinge on this wanting O
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C.R. GRIMMER
C. R. Grimmer (they/them) is an Assistant Professor of Poetry at Utah State University. Their books include The Lyme Letters (Texas Tech University Press), O–(ezekiel’s wife) (GASHER Journal and Press), and The Poetry Vlog: Critical Edition (forthcoming from University of Michigan Press). They created and host teaching series such as The Poetry Vlog (TPV), and have poems and research in in journals such as Poetry Magazine, Prairie Schooner, FENCE Magazine, and The Comparatist. They have taught in higher education for over 13 years at Portland State University, University of Washington, Seattle University, and more. Learn more or reach out to say hi at crgrimmer.com.
To download a printable PDF version of this page, click here.
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A Dozen Nothing 