THE SKY KEEPS SURPRISES
the wound is bleeding into white
the wound is threading clouds
across the eye, across its view
and how can it be
that I am
caught
by the end of this road
by the beginning of a faraway
flame
off guard
I find my steps
going back and forth on pavement
in the middle of the street
a follower
of clouds
a sort of
clown
does anybody see?
against this view, why
do I feel
myself
invisible and invincible
a leaking thing at times
there among the buildings
and windows
all above my head
I could be seen
a fool
and
I am I am.
AHMAD ALMALLAH
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A STATEMENT FROM NO ONE, INCORPORATED
“what is it when a death is ruled a homicide but no one is responsible for it”—Hanif Abdurraqib
We are not responsible. We have not
the capacity to respond, cannot take
your call, are not obliged. We promise
nothing in return except that we will
return, asking that the potential profit
this lost life’s labor could have produced
be accounted for, and blaming our
Black dead president for the deficit. We
are deficient and without your damage
the world is difficult work to live on.
We live on the unanswerable, assert
that acknowledgment is inartistic,
history is regressive, and aggression
looks like no one we know. No one
is responsible while we have the luxury
to see ourselves as infinite ones, ocean
of individual possibility. We are so
many blades in the yard the wind
runs screaming invisibly through.
We need to have a deeper dialogue
about the need for deeper dialogue,
but oh oh, we are always these spondees
of speechlessness and cannot process
your request, are too busy about
our dreams. The celestial bodies appear
from here, ripe for colonies and more
questions. We are over earthly inquiry
and unfortunately, though your sigh
traveled light-years from the dark
matter of gravity we’re intrigued to find
you now are, we will not see you today
(we are recessed on narrowing beaches,
toasting our gods with a wellsprung red
we cannot source but are confident
the year was relatively good), but here,
for your trouble, for coming so far:
JUSTIN PHILLIP REED
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SWEETHEARTS
One day
either you
or me
as if drugged
will be staring
at a collage
of photos
in an unfamiliar
foyer,
the other
sleeping
in the next room over
inside a shiny box
like a saw-in-half trick
where everyone
seated in rows
is waiting for something
to happen.
I know
I’ll be stuck
in that first room
where old friends
who knew
you briefly
but remember your smile
will hang out,
away from family.
I’ll be there,
almost
out the door,
alone
waiting as if for you
to come out
of the bathroom,
so we could
stand again
like we did our entire lives,
together
in the darkest corners,
making
dirty jokes,
not knowing what to say
to sadness,
eager to leave
when nobody’s
looking,
out across
a silver parking lot
like geese
breaking off
a lake.
C. L. O’DELL
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THINGS HAUNT
California is a desert and I am a woman inside it.
The road ahead bends sideways and I lurch within myself.
I’m full of ugly feelings, awful thoughts, bad dreams
of doom, and so much love left unspoken.
Is mercury in retrograde? someone asks.
Someone answers, No, it’s something else
like that though. Something else like that.
That should be my name.
When you ask me am I really a woman, a human being,
a coherent identity, I’ll say No, I’m something else
like that though.
A true citizen of planet earth closes their eyes
and says what they are before the mirror.
A good person gives and asks for nothing in return.
I give and I ask for only one thing—
Hear me. Hear me. Hear me. Hear me. Hear me.
Hear me. Bear the weight of my voice and don’t forget—
things haunt. Things exist long after they are killed.
JOSHUA JENNIFER ESPINOZA
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A PORTABLE PARADISE
And if I speak of Paradise,
then I’m speaking of my grandmother
who told me to carry it always
on my person, concealed, so
no one else would know but me.
That way they can’t steal it, she’d say.
And if life puts you under pressure,
trace its ridges in your pocket,
smell its piney scent on your handkerchief,
hum its anthem under your breath.
And if your stresses are sustained and daily,
get yourself to an empty room – be it hotel,
hostel or hovel – find a lamp
and empty your paradise onto a desk:
your white sands, green hills and fresh fish.
Shine the lamp on it like the fresh hope
of morning, and keep staring at it till you sleep.
ROGER ROBINSON
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WHITE LIE
no room has ever
kept its promise
to the yellow window
from its dark street
not really
EVAN LAFFER
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THE LIFELINE
Here is what I know: when
that bell tolls again, I
need to go and make something,
anything: a poem, a pie, a terrible
scarf with my terrible knitting, I
need to write a letter, remind myself
of any little lifeline around me.
When death sounds, I forget most
of what I learnt before. I go below.
I compare my echoes with other people’s
happiness. I carve that hole in my own
chest again, pull out all my organs once
again, wonder if they’ll ever work again
stuff them back again. Begin. Again.
PÁDRAIG Ó TUAMA
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NOT ALL OF US GET TO BE GHOSTS
In December I watch movies about ghosts
with a woman I call mama though she is not
my mother, only a woman who is kind, this all
I require. We take breaks to lean against each other
on the porch, her sucking smoke from between
her fingers, exhaling its skirling; each mouthful
dissipating, becoming something like air. My breath’s
a less impressive phantom, fleeting silver
in the cold light. Standing there
in our small shadows, we discuss the ways
of the dead, their metaphysics, as if we were experts
by osmosis, a certain knowledge absorbed. I say I think
our ghosts become us, or at least reside in our dark
like tenants we haven’t the heart to kick out.
She says, though she hasn’t quite figured it out yet,
there are rules: not all of us get to be ghosts.
LEILA CHATTI
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PROSE POEM
Another day in the ruinous world, eating
peanut butter off a knife.
TOM SNARSKY
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DUFF'S
The sky in here is very blue
and made of wood.
You are very great,
I think.
Ruth is great.
Have a brandy.
Nobody lives forever
and it's a fucking shame.
JAMES SCHUYLER
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TOM SNARSKY
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FALL SONG
It is a dark fall day.
The earth is slightly damp with rain.
I hear a jay.
The cry is blue.
I have found you in the story again.
Is there another word for ‘‘divine’’?
I need a song that will keep sky open in my mind.
If I think behind me, I might break.
If I think forward, I lose now.
Forever will be a day like this
Strung perfectly on the necklace of days.
Slightly overcast
Yellow leaves
Your jacket hanging in the hallway
Next to mine.
JO HARJO
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