Poetry

The Automaton to Her Engineer

by on May 5, 2015 in Poetry | 0 comments

My gears run smooth no more. They bite into each other like a crone’s teeth bite the apple’s flesh, like fingers of a dead man bite the living air. Soon my gears will be stuck, metal to metal and no room left for the winding, no key that could move these parts, no hammer to shake them, no chain to tear these bolts, just the furnace bleeding like rust. I leak, too. Oil to keep me moving, the lubricant-golemspell that tickles my throat: it moves away from within me like amniotic breath and all my movement goes with it, flees the absence of hydraulic pressure. There is air in my belly and in the tubes that are my chest, and there should be no air; I have no breath. The air...

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Sidereal

by on May 5, 2015 in Poetry | 2 comments

She stands watch. Ungloved trigger hand clutching the stock of her gun, she notes the sky isn’t sable, but blue and the night air smells of ozone and wet dirt. He kneels in a puddle of crimson light, the click and tap of his precision tools a-rhythmic and bright. Night-repairs warrant a practiced force of two. Operator and Specialist, machinist and soldier. The optimal team. Pylons loom for kilometers, awaiting his quick hands to coax their circuits to life. She glances at him, comprehends him with aching clarity— how he moves with sureness, muscle a machinery hitched to gears of bone. The curve of his back, set of his shoulders. Armoring over a heart at home in its...

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If I Only Had A…

by on May 5, 2015 in Poetry | 6 comments

Everything we were looking for Was right there with us all along, In a tidy gingham package. I’m the one who figured it out, of course. Couldn’t stop laughing, for a long time, when it hit me. My laughter always disturbs people— Echoes oddly through my hollow metal chest. She asked if I was okay. Concerned. She always had so much heart. Plenty in the brains department too. We had to get a bit more metaphorical with the courage. Finally the lion was satisfied with her spine— I doubt he’s really any more courageous, But with a necklace of bones Twined through his bloody mane, Nobody’s going to challenge him and find out. The mutt wouldn’t leave what was left of her. He...

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He Dreams of Salt and Sea

by on May 5, 2015 in Poetry | 0 comments

The woman knits. Salty green-brown strands slip between her needles, coat her hands with brine. Waves boom onto rocks smeared with moonlight and the wind tastes of mackerel. The coverlet takes shape. A delicate lace pattern knitted into the scalloped edges of kelp. She shakes it out, examines her work harvested from the sea— she’s crafted a salt-flecked blanket to receive her baby. Her infant son kicks beside her, so paltry and pale. Her breasts ache. The woman binds her son. Pulls the sea-grass swaddling tight, and croons in his ear. Dissonant, breathy sounds, the hiss and sigh of the receding water, strange harmonies of the ocean depths summon blunt heads that bob,...

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there must be a surefire way to separate the ravens from the crows

by on Apr 7, 2015 in Poetry | 0 comments

“at least” is the phrase apologists use to characterize icharus icharus, so white his teeth, icharus, so straight his gait, his cell phone coverage, great, at least they say at least the sea, at least the chariot wheel, as if those poor teeth were even covered there in ancient greece, the fried chicken spots on the toga, the shadow of icharus the slow strum of feathers that are hardly worth noting except when they are finally moving, as they renovate the sky, except when lazing about, viscous and thick, accept the thin hips and whiteness of feathers, be in the moment, down which is to say, as a child, i never worried much about dragons, here bees would see in colors i...

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The Multiple Lives of Juan and Pedro

by on Apr 7, 2015 in Poetry | 0 comments

two children asleep in each others’ arms by the gutter, wreathed in tetrapaks and plastic bottles in the wake of the flood their bodies the color of mud coated in mud one’s face buried in the other’s neck one’s arm snaked beneath the other’s sando their lips the color of cigarette ash and grime from the river that tucked them into bed * Juan with cataracts in his eyes puts down the blade he has been using to slice sugarcane it is the part in the story where the mayor comes to be unreasonably rude and to threaten Juan’s beautiful teenage daughter who will be shown no mercy and diyos ko it’s that bit where the goon comes to crush Juan’s bones Juan’s spirit Juan will cry...

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