Matt Mauch

Bio: 
Matt Mauch is the author of four books of poetry, Bird~Brian,  If You’re Lucky Is a Theory of Mine, Prayer Book, and the forthcoming We Are the Flownover. We Come From Flyoverland. He is also the author of the poetry chapbook The Brilliance of the Sparrow. He founded the annual Great Twin Cities Poetry Read and the Maeve’s Sessions readings at Maeve's Cafe along NE Minneapolis's in/famous Poetry Row.  A Minnesota State Arts Board Artist Initiative grant recipient and National Poetry Series finalist, Mauch founded and now publishes the journal Poetry City, USA, and teaches in the AFA in Creative Writing program at Normandale Community College. He lives in Minneapolis.
www.mauchmauch.com

As doubly good as the the gift of socks from Mara Mori 
is the acceptance of an offer to dance at highways speeds

From the backseat 
of a motor vehicle, I look

 	          into the backseat  	
                  of a different motor vehicle

and sense connection  	
                    sensing connection.

Like seventh graders

 	          who only know 	           how to slow dance  	           one way, we fall  	
                   into each other,  via gaze,

 	 	                      like a pillar

not holding anything up. Like 
the ruins

of having previously held. 
A something 	  
                   previously assembled  	
                    into a greatness

beyond the sum of its parts. Like

 	          the species of bullfrog 	          that jump

 	          and simply never come down.

As if great hand 
were lifting us, like marionettes,

 	           from the opera  	
                   we thought

was all there was.

When we gather again, lap to lap to lap around a fire 

 Like space dust, we will coalesce.

 	 We will tell our secrets and say our hellos  	
in newly native tongues,
                          	 	 	         with new accents,  	 	 	
                                         new idioms,

no subtitles to help us 
understand.

 	 	                      As with a pop song 	 	                      we can’t decipher all the words to, 	 	  	 	                      we’ll shimmy,  	
shake,

 	 	                     hit all the vowels 	 	                     and most of the chorus, 	  	 	                     like a marsh

 	 	                    full of returning birds. Our spirit selves, at first with our 
hair and our laps,  	 	                 fresh from our bodies, 	 	                 will rise

and disfigure, spreading

 	 	                   as a kind of smoke,  	
settling unseen.

We will evolve 	           into a cemetery,

 	           sure,

in death as in life: an open-air bowl 	 	    with no prophet,

 	 	   no book,  	 	
no worship, no lid.

Matt Mauch

As doubly good as the the gift of socks from Mara Mori is the acceptance of an offer to dance at highways speeds

When we gather again, lap to lap to lap around a fire

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