Two poems from Peter Krumbach’s Me Not Me
followed by a note on the author
This time I will have a brother.
And the woman across the table slicing
bread will be my mother, my sister still
inside her. From the door I will hear voices
of two priests who’ll soon stand
behind my father’s chair. The sound of rain
on leaves so near, and death breathing
so gently, my life will have no end.
I will think of the Christmas carp circling
in the bathtub, and of all the teeth reflected
in our spoons. I will cut my finger to show
the finch my blood. And I will sing
as the dead sing in dreams, mouths opened
to wafers, the tune dissolving on our tongues.
This time I will smile at the potato steam
lifting my grandmother’s heart.
It will be me and not me, the way light
can never fit into itself.
And Somehow a Dog
And somehow a dog
And someway a sow
And anyhow a walking stick
And however a caribou
And ergo a mole dreaming of sight
And duly an adverb safari
And indeed looking for hitherto
And hence a god’s dogwalker letting go
And therefore the hounds fleeing heaven
And nonetheless the crows always know
And nevertheless your face in the mule’s eye
And accordingly an ostrich egg rolling
And henceforth settling at your feet
Loop first appeared in The Greensboro Review;
And Somehow a Dog first appeared in Denver Quarterly
Peter Krumbach was born in Brno, Czechoslovakia. After graduating with a degree in visual arts, he left the country, and eventually found his way to the U.S. He worked in commercial art (New York), as a translator and broadcaster (Washington, D.C.), and, for the last 25 years, has lived and written in Southern California. His collection Degrees of Romance, winner of the 2022 Antivenom Poetry Award, is forthcoming from Elixir Press.