In a child's dream, a taximdermied rabbit argues with the gun that shot it. "You must never ask anyone if they are Real," the rabbit admonishes.
Such is the surreal, dreamscape of a poetry collection that is Noah Wareness' Real is the Word They Use to Contain Us (Biblioasis). Made up of 26 deliciously weird poems by the mysteriously pseudonym'd author (Noah Wareness -- say it quickly), the collection is electric, just scary enough, and anchored in an expansive sense of loss, wonder, and awe.
We're excited to present a brief excerpt from the wonderfully weird collection, exclusively available on Open Book.
Excerpt from Real is the Word They Use to Contain Us by Noah Wareness
...a few of the monsters crawling in the rug, though none of the very smallest, began to fold themselves down like the thumbprint patterns on the backs of creeping shells. They went to slink under the moulding and into the cracks between floorboards, hiding as far as they could from the parlour door, shadows around them vibrating like tiny springs...
The kitchen under the stairs
there s rooms in your house you ve never been
you said empty bookshelves leaning sideways
drifts of white sawdust in their corners
there s cast iron pipe in the walls you said
dead pipes packed with old newspapers
matted together the colour of beach sand
i didn t even know i had a sister
or where the first dog ended up
and you told me when wasps get trapped
halfway in the grain of the floorboards
the sound of their wings makes a prism
i couldn t sleep i sat against your door
tracing its outline through the wallpaper
the piece of yellow glass you left me
the thread of light under the baseboard
as you stirred you turned on your lamp
i can reach up and touch their bodies now
they crumble like paper nests grow back
brushing at the corners of my mouth
the wings hold me now there s footsteps
you re walking back and forth in the night
making tea the kitchen under the stairs
...but in the end most came to the Rabbit, a few at first and then multitudes, weaving themselves among the strands of his fur as it slipped in the breeze. The words he had spoken dressed him like a braided coat of shadow, a hundred monsters coiling over every inch of him; and it could not be told whether they meant to hide themselves or offer him protection, whatever the parlour door meant...