Copyist
Susan L. Leary
After we give the animal a writing utensil, what 1s needed next: a mind or a piece of paper? This is not a question
or a riddle but an argument of practicality. The idea of a brother is not a brother. The idea of freedom is made tangible in the hands
of arbitrarily good men. How to invent the after-life? How to absolve oneself of hierarchy while kissing another man's feet?
On the outside, my brother passes me the clippers. He passes the dog a coin & I hide the dog in my purse. If I must remember
for him, must I remember accurately? On the questionnaire, my sister gets shit done. I count the fan blades. I call the public
defender. I leave a message for the 29* time. No one gives a fuck, my brother says—& all I can do is listen. All I can do is thumb
through the pages & continue to learn his whereabouts. Bunk 22.
Bunk 32. Where against the false pretense of sunrise, he dreams from an unidentified bed & I dream in the bed of his language.
If you are someone who is likeable only in comparison to your captor, What are we doing? he says. If we hold the state accountable, do we do it through language or through love? On the outside, my brother
passes. I take his pen & invent the mouth of his archive. I am delegate.
I am yammerer. Of myself, my brother should get the credit.
Honored to have a new poem in The McNeese Review, a journal I absolutely love! Thanks to editor, Michael Robins, and poetry editor, Gwenyth Wheat, for giving “Copyist” such a kind home and for inviting me to speak about my process in crafting it (included in the replies)! Check it out, friends! 💙
