Poetry Archive



Kate Hall

The words turn into a restaurant
where I can’t decide whether to order a cheeseburger
or garlic fried shrimp.  For the sake of argument,
they taste exactly the same.  We’ll begin in a vacuum with
artificial tools.  We’ll assume the big bang was
the origin of the universe and there was
nothing before it.  Nothing will be
a substance to suspend years of facts.
A game show will turn into a sparkly thought experiment. 
People are running around behind the set but
god knows what they’re doing. 
Faced with three identical doors, you choose.
Goats are hiding behind two doors and there’s a Mercedes
behind the other.  Success with reality is the car. 
The hypothetical host shows you one of the losing doors.
You have to decide whether to change
remaining doors mid-game.  The mysteries are in need of
continual rephrasing.  After seeing a loss,
change is always a good idea; it improves
your odds.  I arrived on set.  I started
at the beginning.  I imagined the doors. 
But the probability problem had been solved by
an advice columnist whose husband makes artificial hearts.
So I will try to love the menu.
And I will try to love the stage lights.
And I will try to love the goats when I find them.


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Kate Hall is the editor of Delirium Press. Her poems have recently appeared or are forthcoming in jubilat, PRISM International, Colorado Review, Denver Quarterly and will be featured in Boston Review's Poet's Sampler. A graduate of the M.A. program at Concordia University, she lives in Montréal. Greenboathouse published Kate's chapbook Suspended in 2008.


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