Paul Hostovsky
Paul Hostovsky makes his living in Boston as a sign language interpreter. His poems and essays appear widely online and in print. He has won a Pushcart Prize, two Best of the Net Awards, and has been featured on Poetry Daily, Verse Daily, and The Writer’s Almanac.
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FLEDGLING​
My training wheels lie in the grass
like legs. My father stands over them
steadying the bicycle with one hand
while with the other he beckons
with a grimy finger. A Phillips-head
sticks in the earth beside the severed
pair. The whole scene looks like an amputation.
I will never walk again, if I can help it—
as soon as I learn how to fly. Flying
will be a little like dying, and a little
like being born. I mount the bike
which wobbles slightly in my father’s grip
the way the earth wobbles in the grip
of the late afternoon sun going down
behind the huddled houses. The seat,
which is a little higher than the sun,
and the handlebars which are approximately
two stars, together form my north and south poles.
My spine is the prime meridian. My nose
sticks out over the top of the hill, on top
of the world, sniffing the air for the bottom.
PERFECT DISAPPEARANCES​
This poem is for all the writers
writing. On their laptops, desktops, smartphones,
legal pads, napkins, palms
of their hands—desperate to get it down
before it disappears
like the phone number of the most amazing person you just met
and have to see again—just have to—
so you write it on your own skin
and walk off into the world alone
with the whole world in your hand. God
help the writers in love with the words that disappear
like disappearing trains you catch
by running after them,
losing a shoe, a hat, an earring, a spouse—a lifetime
of chasing the disappearing words,
breathlessly reaching for them,
grabbing ahold and hoisting yourself up
onto the caboose, entering the rhythm
of those corridors moving through the world
as you move through them, feeling your way,
looking up and down and all around for
that dream you dreamed and followed all the way here.