Will Walker
CRACKERS
Somewhere among the Olmec heads
that weigh ten tons and the axes smooth as water
and the little masks with faces you want to talk to,
if only you could travel—briefly, with a guaranteed
uneventful germ-free return––across the millennia
to admire the chiseled features and perfect
enameled teeth of the living models,
you no longer have to wonder what the subjects
would say to you, because they begin talking,
or mouthing murmurs from their pedestals
and plastic cases, lit from above or below
for maximum dramatic effect. Crackers, they say,
through their eyes, in perfect English, the words
emerging from their frozen features.
––That’s what we want. Crackers, the gluten-free jobs
with sesame seeds. A slice of cheese. Even a lowly
tortilla would do. And a cup of that fermented juice
whose formula has been lost to the jungle.
Crackers, they all say, lighting the shadows that hover.
The voices have spoken. I am their emissary.
EGGS
Out walking the dogs, I notice what they’re thinking
clear as day. In their modest thought balloons
there hovers an egg––hardboiled and peeled,
glistening and impervious, a glowing white translucence,
such indescribable integrity, a thing the same
in any language, a protein pill like the watery sun
in today’s overcast, shining like a blind eye.
Or like the egg I eat at breakfast––no culinary sensation,
just a hedge against high blood sugar.
The dogs carry the eggs so freely––one to each thought balloon,
a pair of eggs on leash. The eggs shine whitely
on each blade of grass that’s sniffed, endorsing
the invisible scent of the world, the passage
of other dogs with their perfect unthought eggs
like serene bubbles on a slow-moving stream,
reflecting everything without knowing it, gliding
on the surface that is the only dimension
they will ever know, or need.
Out walking the dogs, I notice what they’re thinking
clear as day. In their modest thought balloons
there hovers an egg––hardboiled and peeled,
glistening and impervious, a glowing white translucence,
such indescribable integrity, a thing the same
in any language, a protein pill like the watery sun
in today’s overcast, shining like a blind eye.
Or like the egg I eat at breakfast––no culinary sensation,
just a hedge against high blood sugar.
The dogs carry the eggs so freely––one to each thought balloon,
a pair of eggs on leash. The eggs shine whitely
on each blade of grass that’s sniffed, endorsing
the invisible scent of the world, the passage
of other dogs with their perfect unthought eggs
like serene bubbles on a slow-moving stream,
reflecting everything without knowing it, gliding
on the surface that is the only dimension
they will ever know, or need.
Copyright © 2016 Map Literary
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Will Walker lives in San Francisco with his wife. He is a former editor of the Haight Ashbury Literary Journal. His collection of poems, Wednesday after Lunch, is available on Amazon.
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