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Recorded for Poem-a-Day, November 9, 2017.
About this Poem 
“I was stomping around my house, saying ‘No’ (why? I cannot remember) and suddenly felt how it made a hole in my throat. My thoughts turned to the Doctrine of Signatures: a medieval idea that the forms of things suggest their function. We still see it in alternative food theory: a carrot slice looks like an eye, therefore carrots are good for sight, for example. Here it's about the sound and feel of saying ‘No’ in English: No as a hole-maker, an eraser, a pit. But: No can also be helpful, necessary, crucial. Thus: who might have an investment in libeling No? Why Yes, of course. I’m working now on a Gospel of No, where Yes comes in for similar treatment.”
—Dana Levin
 

According to the Gospel of Yes

It’s a thrill to say No.
 
The way it smothers
everything that beckons―
 
Any baby in a crib
will meet No’s palm
on its mouth.
 
And nothing sweet
can ever happen
 
 
             
 
 
to No―
 
who holds your tongue captive
behind your teeth, whose breath
whets the edge
 
 
             
 
 
of the guillotine―
 
N, head of Team Nothing,
and anti-ovum O.
 
And so the pit can never
engender
 
 
             
 
 
the cherry―
 
in No, who has drilled a hole
inside your body―
 
No.
Say it out loud.
Why do you love the hole
 
No makes.
 

Copyright © 2017 by Dana Levin. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 9, 2017, by the Academy of American Poets.

Copyright © 2017 by Dana Levin. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on November 9, 2017, by the Academy of American Poets.

Dana Levin

Dana Levin

Dana Levin is the author of Banana Palace (Copper Canyon Press, 2016) and Sky Burial (Copper Canyon Press, 2011), among other books. She lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

by this poet

poem
You don't have to break it. Just give it a little 
tap.

tap tap. See,

there's the crack. And if you pry it a little
         with the flat end of that spoon,

you'll be able to slip yourself through.


                               —


To the woods where you're walking. Crushed ice above you
2
poem
Buddhist temple, Tokyo


         One cry from a lone bird over a misted river
is the expression of grief,
         in Japanese. Let women
do what they need.
         And afterwards knit a red cap, pray—

In long rows, stone children in bibs and hats, the smell of pine and cooled
         earth—

It was a
2
poem
You put a bag around your head and walked into the river.
You

walked into the river with a bag around your head and you were
never dead 

game on the banks of your
mental styx

for the double
audience

of smoke—


               —


You pressed a coin into his palm and stepped across the water.
You

stepped