Poetry

Sonnet 29

by on Nov 4, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

107 WORDS Ghost or angel, you never leave me. You cinch my waist like the skirt of scales I slipped out of. Breathing becomes labored, like gulps of air a swimmer takes head–turned. Tonight, I decide to stay in the husk of a woman; to peel over bruises. What’s left of me, the inside part, the round eye of seed and fruit, sees only you.   Although I cannot touch you, though I tire of calling your name, what sad fury, what waiting, what want sharks around me in a circle. If I survive: row my way again to shore. The vultures, mad with fever, will smell a new life crowning. Ama Codjoe is an educator, dance artist, and emerging poet with roots in Memphis and Accra.  She...

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Brains, Brains, Brains

by on Nov 4, 2014 in Poetry | 3 comments

300 WORDS most times we wait for bone harvest to flesh for first sigh of blood for grunt work’s spin   we guard our knees drag our limbs tilt scarred hands towards amber dusk and rise from the trenches   our unmoored unalivenees moans somewhere inside of us where dark things scratch blood heat’s caw awakens our belly clocks as sharp as book spines   our meals are co–authored shameless gang — braining fantasies anthropophagical cravings   newborn thighs silk fine lust stacked husband plucked from football monday’s with beer dripping breasts divorcee tongues marinated in rocket sauce   first bite fractures the undeadness      an inoperable...

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On the Excarnations of the Gods

by on Oct 7, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

The rush of water pushes time, eating the shore and exposing it, tugging the bodies of stones back and forth across unmarked lines of life and death, time and tide. Sometimes they gasp in the air and sometimes lie under clear and peaceful blankets measured in fathoms measured in beats of hearts, of long arms akimbo finger pads and heels of hands striking the skin of the drum. This is why, when our bodies become flesh alone we open them to the sky, an offering to the ravening of birds. Let them strip us to our bones, baring to the sight of the gods of the air all our secrets, decades of mysteries both splendid and small, cancerous and threaded through our flesh just like...

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The Excavation of Troy

by on Oct 7, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

Schliemann digs by day in the winds of Hisarlık, prospecting for myth with digammas and dynamite. His children’s names roll like the sea grounding black ships on burning shores, his wife with the hair of a saffron gatherer looks past the camera as if to Paris at the feast; year by thousand years, thirteen Troy towns give up their gold as one. The woman comes each night on the boat from Ithaki, steered by her husband with a soldier’s sea–mazed eyes. Her jewels are a handful of olives, sucked salt on the journey, a loom–brown woman, the lines of her mouth warp and weft. With wool–worn fingers, she ravels the earth of Ilion, amending all that picks and photographs may do —...

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Half Wives

by on Oct 7, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

Like Schrödinger’s cat the half wives live in boxes with a loaded gun, neither living nor dead, until their box is opened and the cold and messy laws of probability take effect. That’s why I never open boxes. Sometimes I hear them breathing. Chris Lynch is a writer and teacher based in Brisbane, Australia. His poetry has appeared in The Stars Like Sand, Eye to the Telescope, and Star*Line, among others. At work on a book about walking Japan, he blogs haiku at www.chrislynch.com.au and tweets more than he should as...

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Synesthete

by on Sep 2, 2014 in Poetry | 1 comment

For Lily and her eyetongues Love is a hungry word Hollow, needful Lying thick on the tongue, and sharp With a coppery tang Not unlike blood Though its stain Far more difficult To wash away I spoke it only once After In the days when this juxtaposition These star–crossed wires Were new, novel A parlor trick to amuse my friends When I still had more than one More than you I’d healed from the accident A head–meet–pavement moment Back when black Was just a color And did not come with its own Sweet and sour scent Quite apart from licorice Or asphalt And there were no such things As helmet laws I was reading to my little sister Her favorite book, once mine Where the Wild...

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