Will someone string the cold lights through the tulips? Will someone close grief's atlas & ship the salt to bookend the night? Will someone briefly touch my shoulder while I sleep? Moat, moat, moat. My arm like a drawbridge lowers to the grasses, an unstamped postcard, slight glances through curt branches, grey trousers, the hand-drawn airplane. Addresses. I pack myself with milkweed & thistle. Season of what?
I'm briefly in NY. Which means, a whirlwind of MOMA, the New Museum, McNally Jackson, and The Strand.
One of my favorite journals, GlitterPony, has a new issue up, starring these fine reindeer:
Alina Gregorian, Andrew Morgan, Ben Mirov, Billy Cancel, Bruce Covey, Cynthia Arrieu-King, Daniela Olszewska, Dara Wier, Dot Devota, Elizabeth Witte, Emily Pettit, Guy Pettit, Heather Christle, Lyndsey Cohen, Maia Elgin, Matt L. Rohrer, Matthew Mahaney, Megan Leonard, Mike Young, Ryan Eckes, Sampson Starkweather, Seth Parker, Travis Macdonald.
For example, a poem by Dot Devota:
And The Girls Worried Terribly
Splendid the time that laid eggs in our nest!
Bending to worship the self in thin winds. At the end of the stick
the disease of numb tongues
and yet, it was the end of the stick. I have only one lung.
Give me the others, each exhalation hell reaping the benefits.
And in the wrong poem is death, from which the beginning
is a frail dessert. Bees as lively as champagne bubbling from our flutes!
I leave the table and dig a circular grave beneath the peach tree,
then dig more circular graves the size of peaches
for the fruit that doesn’t get picked to fall in.
Children holler at us, the flowers are blooming!
chained pets leaning into the sun. The child I give birth to
otherwise inappropriate in the presence of the dead,
cauldron simmering our egos
breaking the skin of the porridge
and disappearing to speak of courage,
rescuing all future inadequacies.
Prying the eye apart, I begin
with the wrong poem—we toast,
For example, poem by Guy Pettit:
My Life's Work
I’ll talk to just anyone
The man in the tree
His open hands
He cleans up
That’s what I like
Why I’ll talk to anyone
About the president.
Or more likely
I’ll make them talk
About the president
With someone else.
I want to hold the hand of modesty.
I want to hold the hand of modesty
But I don’t and I deny myself
Loss of memory
Beauty of trees
I always yell at you
I want to stop
And yelling always
To another planet.
And I am alarmed.
Believe me because I am.
If you find an egg in the air
That is my alarm.