Valerie Loveland
Unsolved Mysteries: Widower Husbands
When they go on the show they know what to say.
Even before the show, they know
how to say they didn’t do it. Nobody
needs to say what it is.
Every it is the same it
and every she is the same she. Why
won’t the camera record their hands
during the interview? Why didn’t someone put the wedding photo
in their hands and record their expression?
The wedding photo is not interviewed, but it knew
as soon as the camera shutter opened
what was going to happen 10 years later.
Viewers get our own set of clues:
We can tell
by the room where they interview, by the shirts they wear.
We know if they say a rough patch
rocky
struggling
not getting along
having problems.
If they admit one thing, they admit every thing.
When they go on the show they know what to say.
Even before the show, they know
how to say they didn’t do it. Nobody
needs to say what it is.
Every it is the same it
and every she is the same she. Why
won’t the camera record their hands
during the interview? Why didn’t someone put the wedding photo
in their hands and record their expression?
The wedding photo is not interviewed, but it knew
as soon as the camera shutter opened
what was going to happen 10 years later.
Viewers get our own set of clues:
We can tell
by the room where they interview, by the shirts they wear.
We know if they say a rough patch
rocky
struggling
not getting along
having problems.
If they admit one thing, they admit every thing.
Unsolved Mysteries: Robert Stack is a Series of Tubes
He is the root of a connective data structure, meets with us weekly
so he can tell us what we need to know,
all at once.
Asking Robert Stack to look for
[a] something or [a] someone on
Unsolved Mysteries is like looking for [the] someone on the internet.
His voicebox/larynx is a sponge that soaks up
heights and weights/scars/timelines of events/videos of fires/
orphans/amorphous music/fugue state/abandoned cars/cold
night/police blotter/drops of blood/ nightmares
and on camera, he wrings out that sponge.
The wind blew open his trenchcoat
and I saw
inside was not a body, but pipes
and copper wires.
He looks like an empty subway tunnel,
not abandoned, but undiscovered: a secret
packed away, sealed, waiting.
He is the root of a connective data structure, meets with us weekly
so he can tell us what we need to know,
all at once.
Asking Robert Stack to look for
[a] something or [a] someone on
Unsolved Mysteries is like looking for [the] someone on the internet.
His voicebox/larynx is a sponge that soaks up
heights and weights/scars/timelines of events/videos of fires/
orphans/amorphous music/fugue state/abandoned cars/cold
night/police blotter/drops of blood/ nightmares
and on camera, he wrings out that sponge.
The wind blew open his trenchcoat
and I saw
inside was not a body, but pipes
and copper wires.
He looks like an empty subway tunnel,
not abandoned, but undiscovered: a secret
packed away, sealed, waiting.
Even Robert Stack Dies
The internet told us all together, just like Robert Stack
would have. Death happens to everyone,
[but] how could his heart fail
when Robert Stack has never failed
a thing in his life?
How can there be [a] death without [also an] investigation?
How are we sure
tears are sincere
until the results
come back from the lab?
We don’t know
what happens in a mortuary without light that bends
through a camera lens.
Moths have been masticating
all of Robert Stack’s wool sweaters again--so many
miniscule holes.
I don’t think he [actually] died--I look at my television screen,
and he is still there.
The internet told us all together, just like Robert Stack
would have. Death happens to everyone,
[but] how could his heart fail
when Robert Stack has never failed
a thing in his life?
How can there be [a] death without [also an] investigation?
How are we sure
tears are sincere
until the results
come back from the lab?
We don’t know
what happens in a mortuary without light that bends
through a camera lens.
Moths have been masticating
all of Robert Stack’s wool sweaters again--so many
miniscule holes.
I don’t think he [actually] died--I look at my television screen,
and he is still there.
Valerie Loveland is a poet and programmer living in Philadelphia. She is the author of Mandible Maxilla, Female Animal, and Reanimated Somehow. She enjoys audio poetry, fountain pens, silent movies, and celebrity cats.