Two poems of mine, Hand (There is a man in China/With one of his hands attached/To one of his ankles by thread) and Phase (We are in a transition period/The body reaching the point of rot) will be part of the flock at Thirteen Myna Birds this month.
If you have enjoyed what I’ve written here, you may enjoy these.
The more we sign our names,
The less like our names it looks.
As if, when older, the mere act
Of being ourselves were
Too much effort,
The creative loops and
Pride of clarity from our first,
Nothing left but vague
Scribbling, for necessity’s sake.
It is possible to feel
In shoes made of concrete/pixel neon/unsourced
Metal, if you drift, quiet,
On social updrafts –
Promises accepted, hope in small bottles
Like cats’ whiskers, or built-in
I dreamt of crystals last night,
Hard-clasped to banish clouds,
And in that magic fear
Rustled soft wings.
One prod and it’s
The fainting couch,
A dramatic hand brushing
The delicate, bruisable forehead.
Where are hopes and dreams then?
Scattered in sighs, and mired
In waste of energy.
I fear surrender.
My Spanish teacher, in 10th grade, once said
You can always tell when a woman is cheating on you.
It’s the suspicion –
It’s when she comes home, at night, and suspects you
For being late,
For not returning the call
For having an affair.
This is why I keep quiet on trains,
And why I hide the covers of my books
A star, a wizard, a Prince,
A chocolatier, an hallelujah chorus,
A mother and the socialite of socialites.
It took my grandmother too, and my cat,
Upping the count, perhaps, because we
Took the least – 30 deaths by Supreme Court,
All their meals photographed,
Exposed, in a small studio in Brooklyn.