Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
How much can it hold in This body
To be free of blemish free of stutter
and limp Blaze fire forged by the god
of cunning of craftsmanship
If only there was a way to seal the perforated
A bolus to slip under skin A tincture bathing
the heart and its retinue worn down organs
Unclasped over decades Asterisms Necklaces
Look at our shiny foreheads,
our cheeks
that haven't yet
lost all trace of softness from
youth. And look
at the way we
stand, our toes either pointing
awkwardly toward each other or
fanned out
the way dancers' do;
at the indentations on our shoes
where a bone out of joint pressed
against leather,
where an insole
cushioned uncertain tread.
But there's still
so much we
can't fathom, can't know
enough to prepare for—
What weather
ahead, what state
of being in the world; how to gather
wishes
to make our will known.
That place to which our loves
have been consigned after perishing
from snake bite— To which they've been
abducted and exiled after a crack
in the earth opened— A lustful god
tore them off the sidewalk or out of the fields
like flowers— It's characterized
as a place from which there's no hope
of return; still, stories of negotiation
abound— Throw sweet breads to the dog
with three snarling heads— Appeal
the terms of passage— A mother says, trade you
six months of the year for six kernels
of crimson fruit the girl
couldn't help put in her mouth, so desperate
was her hunger— Play heart-rendingly
on your instrument so as to move
the coldest juror and melt the prison bars— Blindness
and the long road back— A shorn head, loosened
cuffs; chains snapped for a body restored—
At least twice in the recent past, the man
I love said he felt like he'd just been
struck by lightning; both times, he walked
in the door, holding a piece of paper
with bad news. Approximately 90% of people
struck by lightning survive. The first time
was a job loss no one saw coming. The second,
a medical diagnosis— and we still have no
idea how it will play out. And I don't know
anyone actually struck by lightning, whether
or not they survived. I used to wonder, if you
keep thinking of something, will it happen?
Some people call it coincidence. Some call it
foresight or premonition. Others say that's
bullshit; but if you believe it,
it may turn into a self-fulfilling prophecy.
When lightning strikes a person or object,
electrical current either zaps the body
with such speed, it may not even leave a mark. Or,
in something called a flashover, it moves
just across and over the skin's
moist surface— in this instance, there's a higher
chance of survival. In the late 1700s,
Lichtenberg kept scrapbooks of branching,
fern-like patterns in the wake of lightning
strikes— Pictures that, keranographists beieve,
resemble objects in the vicinity—
a towering pine, lamp-post, or ship's mast;
the jagged silhouette of rocks and scrub.
The spine of a half-eaten fish.
Closer to thought
than to sense or even
sensation— the idea
that what was rent
may never piece
together again.
Gold is
used for certain
kinds of mending—
malleable and
moldable, precious
commodity. In war-
time, you'd bury it
beside a tree or
swallow it
whole to make
it part
of you.
At the bottom of any bright glass you might hear a slow fizz;
bubbles going flat, the air gone pfft and stale. You worry
constantly about how much time is left— down the apex,
down the drain, careening grains of sand. You harrow
every plot that's been handed to you; no good at improv,
fake it till you make it. Or at least you try. Like kudzu
grown wild, your sorrows would thicken given the slightest
helping hand. Instead, you sharpen drawing pencils,
index the contents of notebooks (and also the refrigerator).
Just keep your head down nine to five, neuf à cinq;
keep your ducks in a row, your nose to the whetstone. Skip
lactose-laced drinks and put in some daily cardio.
Mind over matter sometimes works (ha, like for an abecedarian).
Never thought you'd get here, but here you are, madam.
O for days that promise endlessness outside the archival;
plush nights before everyone is marched into the ark—
quartets playing in the background could render a long hajj
reasonably pleasant. Send a scout to look for nuclei,
seeds, and an island on which to engineer a new start. High
tea at 4 after labor. Not yet time to pre-empt dying.
Use it or lose it, but mind what you choose says the bailiff.
Vanquish the vapors, toggle letters to turn bad to bud.
When you do come to the end, it'll feel and taste like the end—
Xanthic clouds and burned cities; time of the apocalyptic.
You're not quite there yet, though. Outside the tomb,
zest from citrus orchards still wafts up to the azotea.
and bookshelves. How many pages can you read before you're
zonked? We were just talking about Italo Calvino— his
books ran to over 9,000. He didn't get to read them all, but
you know how it is. When you find that long-desired
copy of a title you heard of or was highly recommended, no
xerox or digital copy will do. Desire = pleasure =
dopamine released: visions of curling up in an armchair,
warm socks on, a book in your lap— deliciously,
endlessly satisfying. Also, a way to carve a little respite
vis-a-vis the terrifying commotions in the world.
Factories of fear seem to be in full production, while
unread books invite the past to speak to the future.
Game over, eternal doomsayers cackle, while fleecing
the pockets of the populace. What do self-serving
hacks know about close reading; about the allure of
safety and scholarship, the sexiness of real
intelligence? In a novel set in wartime, a nurse
reads from Herodotus' Histories to a burned patient.
Justifications for war notwithstanding, how can you
quibble about our longtime love for romance,
kissing furtively in the bookstacks, the thirst for
palliatives that deliver? Every story is about
longing. But every good story is about how we try to
outrun our fate. When I come to the very last
moment, I slow down. I don't want it to end,
not yet. Not even after I have surrendered.
They come together in spring or summer,
recalling the old timbre of brass bands,
the vision of younger sisters waking at dawn
to put on majorette's costumes and high boots.
Their towns' most handsome will smile and wave
from flower-bedecked floats, and queens touch
the edges of butterfly sleeves, lightly holding
the pearl of a smile. Though now in other climes,
neither frost nor sun dampen the shine of chrome
nor the flourish of cornets and euphoniums. Saints
dressed as children or carpenters, farmers or
fishermen are borne aloft in the streets, gems
of paste winking from foil-covered crowns. Rice
grains turned into petals dyed yellow and green
curtain each window looking out— not over fields
and volcanoes but train tracks and city skylines.
Sometimes I hum as I wield the knife
over the rind of a potato, over the coarse
grain holding in the sweet gold of a squash.
Some mornings when I wake and feel the old
familiar tendrils of that unshakeable
sadness brush against my cheeks, I want
to curl back into the shape of my own
skin. It takes tenderness to peel away
what held you so long in the dark.
And so, much as I admire the self-
containment of the daikon, also
I can't help loving how it's blushed
with the palest stroke of green.
The wheel and the chariot. The lever,
the nail, the spirit level. That moment
when the earth was unseated as center
of the universe, after who knows how
many scientists were publicly condemned
for pointing out the sun. The feather
and the ball, dropping at the same rate
due to gravity. The compass and the caravelle,
navigation by the stars. The printing press,
moveable type, sewing needles. Pasteurized
milk and clean hands in the surgery. With each
discovery, how we then proclaimed a new
pinnacle of human success. Pyramids and
pagodas, spices and sugar; lower death
rates, cures for most things except
the common cold, avarice, cruelty, and
ego. Who wants the gold medal at the end
of this race? The athlete crumples onto
concrete in a spasm of joy and pain.