Things That Were Better Than We Thought & Things That Were Worse by John Gallaher

Douglas Fir. Weeping Willow. These things are also not it. 
The land goes zero into the water then away. 
The water approaches, full weight, and then 
like a miracle, land rises. I don’t do “earnest” well. 
Oscar Wilde shows up, reminds me it’s important. See? Am I supposed 
to be offering help to someone right now? Am I supposed 
to be building an edifice? Why say “hope”? How about 
“energy drink”? Maybe “snickerdoodle.” Taxes. 
Maybe I should like the word “hope.” Pass it around. 
Don’t bogart the hope, friend. Hope chest. Hope knuckle tattoo. 
Hope diamond. As one pressing for details 
while pretending to be disinterested. That feeling, where it’s 2am, in a too-bright 
kitchen, and we’re talking, and we mean everything, and we won’t remember any of it later, 
where anything done only makes sense as how we live in it. 

		*

It’s a ruthless morning, cool and bright. I know a woman named Hope. 
That feels like a lot of pressure to put on someone. 
Imagine all the situations in which your name 
might get embroiled. And you along with it 
somewhere in that body, but it’s just the same kind of goo 
as a lot of other things, so the you of you 
remains a distant planet 
in which all the titles of the books in the library 
are erased, and replaced with “BOOK,” 
and I recognize you by this thin exterior. I’m as desperate as anyone else. 
Here, let me show you. I’ve made a PowerPoint. 
As if thinking alone could break through something, into 
something, like a child saying “why” and you make something up. 
And then they say “why” again. 

John Gallaher’s most recent book is My Life in Brutalist Architecture, a poem-memoir on adoption and a chapbook, HINGE, from Sixth Finch. His eighth collection, Radio Good Luck, will be out in 2028 from Four Way Books.

9 November 2026