I see your hands with cameras, that light
you carried from some bright Sylvania
filament in the days that followed the
Fête de la Saint-Jean Baptiste, sepia
froth of your café au lait set aside
knuckles poised in estimation, white gold
and the whole backdrop of Europe, the streets
finally unrolled like a screen behind
you, in the fraternity that followed
Bastille day, another shot, a poet
a poem left by the river, pulled into
focus, there’s a story about the day
you were born, all about being alive
though I’ve only heard half so far, other
summers, reels of film not yet developed
from those pictures we see with our eyes closed

Copyright © 2021 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·

we stood in the shop doorway, one flapping
curtain, one translucent bee wing from a
hundred exotic flights of fancy, cracking
paint the color of tree bark, soft eyes the
color of clay, sunlight splintered yellow
a cursive decal of aromas, storms
on the side of the mountain, us below
sandals, technology, sweat, transit forms
woken late, a groggy Western mind, pounds
old currency exchanged, the sun red through
my eyelids, to inspect a chart of sounds
and chakras, what harmonies to construe
the vibrations of enlightenment, all
just to buy one small brass bowl from Nepal
in the ‘Hands of Tibet’ store, I recall
the same ones imported home every Fall

Copyright © 2021 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·

unpack more notes from the slow magic show
cities in boxes with stickers that glow
rome here and holland, if we can go dutch
honolulu and tissue and miss you and such
cannisters, bannisters, barrels of oak
and I do not recall if ever I spoke
about things disappearing with a distracting snap
the magic you tried to keep under your hat
as we were all waiting for that one thing to come back
a promise, a mission, a lady, a laugh
probably everything ever that felt sawn in half

Copyright © 2019 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·

wicker woven terms, sheltered revisions
furniture fables remodeled, retold
exigent blueprint redefinitions
passions built to scale, possessed or resold
edifice rising from scaffolding bare
through living rooms and lifeless exhibits
hammering verses, tooth and nail repair
budget veneers over unowned templates
superstruct fancy through connecting doors
inching unfurnished to restoration
the reneged construction of set contours
in pencil marked hopes for preservation
lines drawn on unrolled scrolls of conjecture
hoping to summon your architecture

Copyright © 2019 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·

in remembrance of oak slats, arrant nouns
a kiss, a ribbon falling off its spool
summers behind flowers, ties beyond towns
gardens without a gate or latch or fool
to journey through life without a number
of names made up for Creole winds and sighs
no weather or regrets yet to plunder
inside the sweet calendula sunrise
when one mosquito sailed by, some lone rogue
captain out for blood, you said our fragrance
was endless- swamp breath, virginity, prose
hot saxaphones and New Orleans vagrants
a wine with too many notes to name one
forgetful, I pinned the list to the sun

hello from the loose dirt of destiny-
the crushed nutmeg lumped out on the table
every hand-dashed season, no recipe
as the last sunlight leaves a slice, fateful
decisions are laid out, as someone sweeps
the tablecloth out, or the crumbs away
something under the rug, what often keeps
coming to mind these days is how to say
hello from the impermanent craft board
of every November, hello as years
grow trunks and branches, I seem to be floored
as I hear hello from beyond the fears
from the seams of old boards that save a flaw
through so much weather, whatever they saw

Copyright © 2021 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·

Copyright © 2018 · Elizabeth Ganot · All Rights Reserved ·

Dear Summer 2014,

I feel a lack of understanding flare against the whole sunny afternoon. The horizon still refuses to bend when a question isn’t answered, though obviously, there’s no harm in asking everyday, everynight with light interest. I think about lovers crossing countries and continents on boats and trains just to spend a few months together. I find myself thinking it might be good to travel somewhere just to stand in front of a particular artifact, or someplace like Venice that some people say will soon be gone, gone, gone. It’s nice to dream about the future, though it feels a lot like I am talking backwards through daydreams. I’m losing a rock paper scissors game with the long season and I sincerely wish I understood the strange wars of that summer feeling.

love and refrains,

elizabeth