Kelli Anne Noftle
Kelli Anne Noftle writes with her teeth. These poems flex their mandibles, their maxillae. They bear their shiny incisors. They sharpen steel on their own fangs. They brux. And that's an entirely appropriate metaphor for these dual treatments of parasomnia. "I was there for your somniloquy," she writes in "I Follow You All Through the House with My Ears," and I believe her. "Bone-flash of light / in dishwater and your arms / go up, over your head, / recalling the faintest scent, / a single grain of rice singed / to the bottom of a pan."
An aside: The Nepotist first mis-typed the last word of the above quote as 'pain.' And yet, I don't think it's a stretch to introduce suffering into the conversation. Sleep should be our safest situation. It isn't always, though, and when it isn't, grave consequences are sure to follow. "Asleep, a man's hands / are as good as his lists..." What dire things affront us in our hypnogogic state. There are many ways to kill or be killed. Sleep is death's younger brother. The terrors we don't face in waking life will haunt us in our dreams.
Thanks, Kelli.
***
I Follow You All Through the House with My Ears
at night we would hear her thick body noise
moving between two darknesses
–Gabriel Garcia Marquez , “Bitterness for Three Sleepwalkers”
Piece the profanity of sleep talk
into its patchwork sense—
it’s not clear how far
you will travel.
Scrub the pot, then
the sink, touch your finger
to your lips.
I was there for your somniloquy.
Bone-flash of light
in dishwater and your arms
go up, over your head,
recalling the faintest scent,
a single grain of rice singed
to the bottom of a pan.
I was afraid
to wake you standing
at the refrigerator pouring
milk into the litter box.
When you whispered accident,
I saw the body
take another step inward.
I watched the bed give way.
A puff of words escape,
the mattress caves.
Sotto voce, light finds
its way through pockets
of embroidery, untangling story
from bed sheets.
It is inevitable what language will do.
Do not repeat this, what I’m about to say—
Your hands will circle the kitchen
sink, making it clean.
***
The Case of Mr. Falater
The man did not deny killing his wife,
but he did not remember anything about it.
- The New York Times
This is how a man forgets with his eyes open.
The bathtub, green tangled clump
of hair he’s loosed, his lover’s hand on the curtain,
her flesh purling the way smoke curls
white from a pipe, cocoon white.
Asleep, a man’s hands
are as good as his lists:
change the oil, change the marshmallow.
Butter the cigarettes, salt the drain.
Now he’s got a dial tone.
He can hear the whole world
hum inside his telephone like an engine, ignition,
kitchen clock, and he knows what to do, how to smash
the face to make the hands stop moving.
The light comes through one crack and then
another and another until the whole
house is filled and fixed by the light.
***
About the Poet: Kelli Anne Noftle is a singer/songwriter/poet living in Los Angeles. Her work has appeared in Colorado Review, The Journal, VERSE, Conduit, and Harvard Summer Review, among others. Her solo project is called Miniature Soap. Find out more here: www.kelliannenoftle.com
On the identity of The Nepotist:
I’m pretty sure I hooked up with the Nepotist at a party about three years ago. It’s kind of a blur, but I’ll tell you he’s a damn good kisser.
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