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About this Poem 

"In the spring and summer of 2013, I was trying to write a series of short lyrics that merged observation and dreams. Each little poem would be dated and titled with a headline from the day's news. As often happens with poetry, my concept was hurting the integrity of the poems, so I needed to go back and change the titles of the poems—this one was originally called 'Fashion Spread with Women Dressed as Suicidal Women Writers Draws Ire.'"

Song for Future Books

Joanna Fuhrman

The book is made of glass and I look 
through it and see more books. 

Many glass books.

Is someone speaking?

     A muffled voice is telling me 
to make soup which I think 
means I am loved. 

What other kind of cup 
fills itself? 

Can there be a cup of cup?

A cup of itself?

Outside a black squirrel has wiggled 
to the end 
of a very skinny branch. 

When the squirrel breathes
the whole tree shakes,

as if the squirrel were the soul
of the tree.

Have you ever felt like 
such a tree?

Not sayin’ 
I have.

Copyright © 2014 by Joanna Fuhrman. Used with permission of the author. This poem appeared in Poem-A-Day on February 21, 2014. Browse the Poem-A-Day archive.

Joanna Fuhrman

by this poet


A woman builds a house out of birds' cries and cries
all the time within it. The man she had wanted says,

"I am looking for a woman who is crying, but can't
tell if anyone is crying inside that house's outer

crying." So she builds another house; this time, tears
for bricks, and cries as

Everyone I ever loved is standing 
on a platform with a gun. 

In the cartoon version, a flag pops 
with the word 'bang.' 

In the soap opera version, 
my face turns the color of merlot. 

In the haiku version, 
metal gleams in the narrow shadow.

In the Republican version, 
two guns wrap themselves in a single