Question & Answer 2 – Elizabeth Scanlon

Question 2

The clouds are in the cornfields today
and I’m still counting the letters I receive
every time I dream of my mother. There
are always submarines, shades of regret,
and artificial sand, and me climbing into
the litter box to escape the claustrophobia.
I am not sure I am worth an award. Do you
ever celebrate yourself? Sing your own body
electric? I am still awake and still asleep
and now I have read the words pasted to the
walls, and they tell me my father will phone
today, but only to tell me it was an accident.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 2

Most celebrations make me a little uneasy –
weddings, graduations, the occasional bris –
each seem to hold the promise of some affiliation
I’m not sure I can fulfill, a reckoning
of worth that makes all the to-do called for,
and/or come with a big bar bill. Though I do
like to throw a party, especially the inviting part,
the part where you say come on,
come through, there’s going to be a dance-off,
a piñata, some recklessness, some ridiculousness
and it won’t be any fun without you. I like to host.
Is that the opposite of self-aggrandizement, or its pinnacle?

– Elizabeth Scanlon

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Question & Answer 1 – Elizabeth Scanlon

Question 1

When I dove two hundred odd meters
below sea level
I found creatures that both should and shouldn’t
exist,
and I knew we should stop playing God.
Stop categorising
mother nature as if a library book on how to
read unicorn
dreams, or pull the fantasies from old skulls.

I threw myself head first into nuclear
remedies
and waited for the fall out to firm out,
pull me back
to that old tin mine town where all my dreams
could go to die
like my fathers and his fathers and his fathers
before him.
Where do your dreams go to die? Or get resus

citated? The road lead to my wife, and our
daughter, and
too much ER too close to the due date.

– Aaron Kent

Answer 1

Everything in your dream is you,
in the Jungian mode, so you learn
to say, if say, you dream of a lion eating a turkey club,
the lion part of me is eating the turkey part of me club part of me,
to crack the code of the sleeping brain.
The lion-me wakes hungry every day and wants
to run back to the savannah to loll in tall grass.
The turkey talks jive. But the club part of me, oh the club –
it will beat you with the longing to belong.
The dream is to wake before dying.
You are not you, I am not only I, not even
in my dreams.

– Elizabeth Scanlon