Poem of the Week: Matthew Minicucci
Matthew Minicucci
Gattaca
The truth is, I don’t even recognize myself. All I’ve ever wanted to do is leave. Did you know space is like an ocean? Weightless. Waves of light like steam or kelp caught in your arms; stroke to stroke to patient stroke. And nothing. How much I’ve wanted all that nothing. Where I’m going, we don’t need space suits. I’ve got these hand-me-downs; a command module as spotless and smooth as an operating theater. Here’s the thing: none of us ever turns out right. We’re left here, as perfect as can be, listening to background strings and hiding our scars as if they were wedding rings. You want to know how I did it, little brother? I breathe water. I steeled myself; honed down on the very edge of the world. You were afraid to drop off, but I was always falling: the alleyway, the stairs, down a long, golden strand of hair. Everything is about departure. Don’t look for me anymore. I’m leaving my apartment and its beautiful staircase. The pure metaphor of it. Anti-parallel wrought-iron railing; stairs like base pairs just large enough to grasp. Once, I crawled up the whole damn thing. Once, I was in love with someone just like me.
Matthew Minicucci is the author of two collections of poetry: Small Gods, finalist for the 2016 Green Rose Prize from New Issues Press, andTranslation (Kent State University Press, 2015), chosen by Jane Hirshfield for the 2014 Wick Poetry Prize. He is the recipient of fellowships and awards from the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference, the Portland Regional Arts and Culture Council, and the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, where he received his MFA. His poetry and essays have appeared in or are forthcoming from numerous magazines including TheBeliever, The Gettysburg Review, Oregon Humanities, The Southern Review, and the Virginia Quarterly Review. He currently lives in Portland, OR.
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