Poet of the Month: Marsha Pomerantz
June 2016


Moor Eeffoc

Come in, then, and wait for something
to happen: the cream to darken out of

the coffee, sweet syllables to snap back
into crystals of Domino or the store

brand, spoon to spiral up and out,
cup to drain and dry. Moor Eeffoc is
“the motto of all effective realism,”
says the translator of a writer quoting

a writer in translation about immediacy:
a glass sign glimpsed from behind. Real
is no ism, but the distance from exhale
to inhale, any stretch between the eyes

that breaks parallax into component
parts, makes this habitual hand cede

its gelid gesture to an opposite, some
overheated engine that stutters here,

forgetting, inventing, leaking ink into
the burbling pool of the first thirst.

Gutman’s son, der shtumme, in the shul
vestibule, with his grunts and clutching,

his thick lips forcing toward any young
girl’s unmuted ear, the wanting bursting

in his eyes, unsaying all that was said
around him. Sprechstimme was a

neighbor we never knew, across the
lingual ledge, sidestepping melody

and meaning to get a grip. Real is
col legno, back of the bow approaching

astonished strings: the give and thud
of wood on wood, the damper as vivid

as vibration. All opaque, we try,
dumbstruck, to glance through glass

and come out crystalline.


 Published in PN Review