print previewback LUISA MURADYAN
A Beaver and His Pile of Wood
I have spent years trying to cultivate a mature heart.
I read the appropriate books. I stare at artwork.
When I see a pendulum swing I make comments about
how the earth moves, or how isn’t the concept of time
a delightful notion, or how politics is common sense on fire.
And what a beautiful politician that red tulip would have been
but I cannot keep myself from laughing at an anecdote about a beaver
and his pile of wood. And how I made a reference to a nipple in a poem once
and how Tolstoy must have felt when he believed the devil to exist
in his writing. I can’t control you little red tulip, or the woman beneath my skin
howling with laughter. 
A Beaver and His Pile of Wood
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