By Anna Leahy

The arm-crank lets the metal drum spin itself silly 
In the again and again and again of damp sheets.

Remember the lettering, its soft edges, its deep purpling, 
And the smell of spirits. Remember the echo 

Of typewriter keys, the trace of unintended crinkle, smooth as cheek. 
A single spirit master can conjure hundreds of duplicates, 

Each a mirror image, each a little less 
Like itself. This is the way we grew up, 

Losing ourself to ourself, to our passions and professions, carrying 
Our dying forward. Reverberation makes memory 

Seem imminently retrievable, but words fade from daylight. 
How many words slip off the tip of the wanting page 

Like angels from the head of a pin in the imperceptible dancing 
For the capacity to exist individually. Let each of us live 

On the tongue. Let us lick ourselves into brief legibility.

~~~

Anna Leahy’s books include the poetry collections If in Some Cataclysm and What Happened Was: and the nonfiction book Tumor. She has been a fellow at MacDowell, Joshua Tree National Park, and the American Library in Paris and is the editor of Tab Journal. More at https://amleahy.com.