Cara Benson

To steal a hole one must first have desire. Night is how we picture this usually, though day will do. Brown in the ground, and loosely piled beside the fillings displaced. Take whatever was forgotten now found in all the coat pockets of the world into your cupped hands which act as conduits into the hole. Sticky coins, shredded tissues, lots of lint, keys, paperclips, frayed grocery lists, probably buttons. The hole of course will overflow with such obfuscation. An absconding to return to.

From whom do you?


Pile of feathers like raked leaves every child dives into and tosses up to fall as wings between arms and waist. Gathered mounds about the yard. White goose. Soft, not scratchy like autumn. The trees bare their envy and mothers call their birds in to dinner. Nests, eggs, and basted dinner. Hungrier in the colder weather. Bowls of smashed turnips pale orange an early hangover in the season. Tousled forelocks then back out to run in the dark, the houselights stretching yellow-white boxes across the unwrapped yard. Carcass under the eaves. Bats look like certain birds, though they shoot through the night with a pumping propulsion that gives them away. Otherwise, they would pass.

What bones to be found. A brother’s protection is so limited.
There is no angel he fancies, not anymore.

As the horizon approached, the road narrowed. An inverted “V” the road. The road taken, if not chosen. Upside down letter intersecting the line. What has been abandoned. To reach this point, mouth agape penetrated. That which is behind not parallel. A wake widens. Distance covered expands temporally and the travelers re-land through the night. This occurrence phospheresces under clouds that mute the deep sky. A rummaging in luggage scatters scarves and identification tags from a prior convention. Parting gifts ribbon wrapped in decorative bags frame the concierge desk waiting to be claimed like lost children in the shopping mall. The vehicle consuming. Holiday, expense account, frustrated lethargy, the linearity is circumspect and the travel broadens its limitations. Family ground, hotels and long shacks. Highways shared anonymously, fatally. And some times – previously.



Also, outside the room there was a business of not-looking. It was, in fact, commodified. The not-looking meant a craning of the head to the left. Unexpectedly, to the left. At other times, toward the right. The turning of a head to the left or to the right was a not-looking. A not-looking, a head. Ahead. The not-looking-a-head-ahead tribe could also be seen as not looking behind. The looking was a not-looking which had nothing to do

with the search. Searching was not discussed. If it was considered, nobody said so. The bookmarks littered the side of the road the not-lookers did not see. The not-lookers’s backpockets did no longer support combs and their shirts were pressed. What was once ritual, was now habit, and vice-versa. The mirrors were not in the room and not outside the room. That is why the combs were also not. The tribe of the right-side-then-left-side-neck-turners-not-looking-ahead-not-looking-back-that-did-not-see-the-littered-road left in a wet car right off. What car could begat such as these. Paneled station wagon. Standing around the wagon they heard the buzz and dip of the street lamps as prediction. This undercurrent exacerbated the argument over the “getting” of the front seat resulting in two not-lookers forced to face the road as it disappeared behind the car that was a now-moving car. This required grandiloquent effort to not see before them that which was becoming behind them.

Who makes the impervious lock? There is no patent this for-mule (work horse unearthing in mind-field) withstands. Thought maker to be replicated to be seen used ridden driven eaten otherwise consumed. What to keep out/in. Heron becomes coy dog becomes white wall radial. Truck driver dissects the light polluted night. Cargo holding sad plastic squares. Such whimsy between molecules in transported goods. These terminus not sad as we are sad. No.
Sad not like thermometers, either.


Cara Benson edits the online journal Sous Rature. Guest-editor of interdisciplinary book called pre-Diction forthcoming from Chain. Her chap Quantum Chaos and Poems: A Manifest(o)ation (BookThug) co-won the bpNichol prize this year. A collaborative art book/chap Spell/ing ( ) Bound out w/ ellectrique press. he writes chap w/ No Press. Another chap due out later this year as part of the Dusie Kollectiv. Other writing is was will in 26, BoogCity, Tarpaulin Sky, EOAGH, Sentence, 88, HOW2, pom2, Forklift OH, Octopus, H-NGM-N, Belladonna*, elsewhere. She teaches poetry in a NY State Prison.

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