The System

By ELISA GABBERT

Chrysippus laughed so hard
at a donkey who ate all his figs
that he died. Melville said Death
winked at him with the left eye.

I made up these three rules
to live by—can’t tell you the rules—
but know, they suggested
a structure, an elegant system.

Now I’m trapped in the system,
a man in a silent movie
who cut off his own arms
for love. I have to lie to God.

A column in the ruins.
I can’t tell you everything I know
all at once, the way the day
must suffer its own duration.

[Purchase Issue 29 here.]

Elisa Gabbert is the author of seven collections of poetry, essays, and criticism, most recently Any Person Is the Only Self and Normal Distance. She writes the On Poetry column for The New York Times.

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

The System

Related Posts

Raspberries

PHOEBE HYDE
You say you stepped over my trip line of a story by accident? You were just scanning the shelves or pages or screen for a little something light and didn’t think you’d be rattled by a little violence? You just chose badly, or got bum advice, hit a bad patch, took a wrong turn, missed the exit and didn’t mean to come out here

model plane

The Reading Life: The Acrobat

JIM SHEPARD
And Shep looked only a little chagrined, like someone had asked why he had never become an acrobat, and allowed as how he was sure it was very impressive, given how many distinguished people had praised it, but that it was not the kind of thing someone with his background could judge.

Damascene Dream

AYA LABANIEH
You raised me, tayteh, rocking me in your lap, spooning Quranic verses into my little ears, scrubbing the living daylights out of me in the bathtub. Slapping your thighs, “Ta’a, ta’a, ta’a,” you’d say to the lovebirds we raised, “Come, come, come,” and they’d fly, all three of them, out their cages in a flurry and land on your breasts, climb your gold chains, nestle against your cheeks.