Poetry
[panther]
These Hands
Wiconi
the author to the dead
Beloveds, beneath the surfaceof your last place, the tiny, oblivious fishes form wreaths above the sea grasses& their long reach— Some mornings, in my own city far away,I run to greet “you” come to me as sea, & carry myself out into your long, dark time like a child meetingits older cousins. I touch …
Meditation during the Sufferings and Deaths of Others
I did not deserve to be beaten, and I did not deserve ballet lessons– except insofar as everyone deserves ballet lessons. Me mum thought I was well worth beating. She would not have thought that I deserved to starve. I deserved the milk in her breasts–I had put it there. When I was a baby, …
sonic icons
I if I say duvet, night, bed you’ll expect you heard sleep if I say raw, China, worm you’ll think silk and if I say I love you, I love you, I love you hear eye olive yew
How to Survive a Pandemic
the plague comes, the plague grows we stop going outside and call it social responsibility as if we need a reason not to see each other as if we’re not already only seeing each other through the pixels of a screen glued to it like babes on a tit or drunks at the bottle is …
This Town I Knew
I hear the women in the bus swaying, heavy as birds I hear their breathing widening in concentric circles I hear the ice in the souls of men collapsing onto the children I hear the sirens of the silent train and the slobbering Alsatians sniffng the air for faults, unkind fires in their eyes I …