Lindsay Tigue



How does a network connect?
How will a train cross the country?
How can I know here what you know there?
Why must we know? What
do we know? Where does a train go
when it disappears in a mountain?
What is it like inside mountains?
Who answers my questions?
If I have a cough, a fever, and itchy elbows,
what does this mean?
What do I have if I have fifty-two dollars
in quarters, two Canadian pennies,
an overdue library book?
After the invention of telephones,
what was it like to speak with familiar
voices so many miles away?
When I type into the url bar,
why do I always forget where I’m going?
How does it work tin-can operator? What
is on the other end of these keys?
Why can’t all exits be formal—
a train pulling away, a person
left at the station, an arm
frozen mid-wave?



Somewhere, in this building, a baby is crying.
Can you hear that? I ask you. I wake you at night.
One time, I heard that sound in the woods
behind my parent’s house. You said, maybe a fox,
maybe a rabbit in distress. Did it sound like a woman
screaming? you asked. My cat’s cries sound human.
Six hours he wailed after I picked him up, brought him
home in the car to Chicago. Some people
dislike cats, babies. I think I might love
someone kind. I don’t know the neighbors.
Somewhere, in this building, a woman is screaming.
My cat perks his ear toward the sound. Can you hear that?
I ask you. I wake you at night.


Lindsay Tigue