In April’s onion snow, quietly
Quietly, would you sing this back to me, out loud?
from Boston Review
JERICHO BROWN
* * *
Host
We want pictures of everything
Below your waist, and we want
Pictures of your waist. We can’t
Talk right now, but we will text you
Into coitus. All thumbs. All bi-
Coastal and discreet and masculine
And muscular. No whites. Every
Body a top. We got a career
To think about. No face. We got
Kids to remember. No one over 29.
No one under 30. Our exes hurt us
Into hurting them. Disease free. No
Drugs. We like to get high with
The right person. You
Got a girl? Bring your boy.
We visiting. Room at the W.
Name’s D. Name’s J. We DeeJay.
We Trey. We Troy. We Q. We not
Sending a face. Where should we
Go tonight? You coming through? Please
Know what a gym looks like. Not much
Time. No strings. No place, no
Face. Be clean. We haven’t met
Anyone here yet. Why is it so hard
To make friends? No games. You
Still coming through? Latinos only.
Blacks will do. We can take one right
Now. Text it to you. Be there next
Week. Be there in June. We not a phone
Person. We can host, but we won’t meet
Without a recent pic and a real name
And the sound of your deepest voice.
from Vinyl Poetry
KURT BROWN
* * *
Pan del Muerto
In Mexico, they bake bread
for those who died—flat
little cakes they leave around the house
for a mother or father or a child
to find. The dead are living
like us, growing fat, paying their debts,
brushing their teeth on schedule.
Sometimes it’s hard to make your way
across a room to shake someone’s
hand or give them a drink. The dead
are always there, in their evening gowns
and tuxedoes, expecting to be served—
asking for more crackers or champagne.
Just making love is a sacrilege!
The grandmother is there and the school
teacher and the delicate sister,
even those who are not yet born,
more innocent than babies. You get
up in the morning to comb your
hair and you are combing the brittle hair
of the dead, which goes on growing
like the eyelids and the finger
nails, as if the body were the last
to know or simply stubborn.
And maybe that’s what the cakes are for—
to nourish the vanity of the corpse,
who after all would like to look
as good as possible on such a great
occasion. Listen! You hear the leaves
cracking faintly at dusk, a tire humming
on dry pavement, the sound of water
rushing through a pipe? The dead
are hungry! You must take
your knives and bowls and go down
into the cellar; you must begin to chant
those old recipes you’ve been saving—
mixing your own blood with the dry
sand the dead grow fat on,
that the children of the dead roll
into loaves for you to eat—
for the dust that will eventually pass
entirely through you.
from Terminus Magazine
CACONRAD
* * *
wondering about our demise while driving to Disneyland with abandon
don’t be
afraid of
all we have pending
plasma I sold
in Albuquerque
broke even with
food I purchased to produce it
we can manage we can start under
this tree a quiet hour of
dozing into the bark will
reveal the step forward
things thinking about one another
this crystal and feather
together put them behind
the books they want a
private conversation and
that means me getting lost to
fellowship with grass soil and little
stones who tell me there is no clear
sense of when we leave this world
an owl drops a mouse in front of me
it doesn’t have to mean something
but it probably does
help fishing a glass eye out of
the garbage disposal was my
favorite time helping anyone
he was so happy pushing it
back into his head shaking
my hand at the same time
we both wished he wasn’t
my boyfriend’s brother
from Denver Quarterly
ANNE CARSON
* * *
A Fragment of Ibykos Translated 6 Ways
[Ibykos fr. 286 PMG]
In spring, on the one hand,
the Kydonian apple trees,
being watered by streams of rivers
where the uncut garden of the maidens [is]
and vine blossoms
swelling
beneath shady vine branches
bloom.
On the other hand, for me
Eros lies quiet at no season.
Nay rather,
like a Thracian north wind
ablaze with lightning,
rushing from Aphrodite
accompanied by parching madnesses,
black,
unastonishable,
powerfully,
right up from the bottom of my feet
[it] shakes my whole breathing being.
[fr. 286 translated as “Woman’s Constancy” by John Donne]
In woman, on the one hand,
those contracts
being purposed by change and falsehood,
where lovers’ images [forswear the persons that we were],
and true deaths
sleeping
beneath true marriages,
antedate.
On the other hand, me
thy vow hast not conquered.
Nay rather,
like that new-made Tomorrow,
now disputing,
now abstaining,
accompanied by Love and his wrath,
truly,
not truly,
if I would,
if I could,
[it] justifies my one whole lunatic escape.
[fr. 286 as Bertolt Brecht’s FBI file #100-67077]
At a cocktail party attended by known Communists, on the one hand,
the subject
being suitably paraphrased as Mr & Mrs Bert Brecht,
where ten years of exile have left their mark,
and beneath 5 copies of file 100-190707,
Charles Laughton
returning to the stage as Galileo,
enters an elevator.
On the other hand, of my name with a hyphen between Eugene and Friedrich
the Bureau has no record.
Nay rather,
like the name of a certain Frenchman to whom Charles Laughton might send
packages,
accompanied by an unknown woman
who spoke to an unknown man,
or accompanied by an unknown man
who spoke to an unknown woman,
and in the event that all the captions are not correct,
p
lease turn to page 307.
[fr. 286 as p. 47 of Endgame by Samuel Beckett]
In your kitchen, on the one hand,
bright corpses
starting to stink of having an idea,
where one of my legs [is]
and beneath sooner or later
the whole universe
doesn’t ring and won’t work.
On the other hand, I shouldn’t think so.
Nay rather,
like a speck in the void,
pacing to and fro,
accompanied by the alarm,
frankly,
angrily,
impatiently,
not very convinced,
[it] kisses me goodbye. I’m dead. (Pause).
[Ibykos fr. 286 as pp. 136–37 of Conversations with Kafka by Gustav Janouch]
In the end, on the one hand, all those who sit behind us at the cash desks,
being engaged in the most destructive and hopeless rebellion there could ever be,
where everything human [has been betrayed]
and
beneath the burden of existence
stock phrases,
with a gentle indefinable smile,
arouse suspicion.
On the other hand,
one who is afraid should not go into the wood.
Nay rather,
like modern armies,
accompanied by lightly spoken phrases in Czech or German,
fearlessly,
patiently,
unfortunately,
against myself,
against my own limitations and apathy,
against this very desk and chair I’m sitting in,
the charge is clear: one is condemned to life not death.
[fr. 286 as stops and signs from the London Underground]
At the excess fare window, on the one hand, the king’s bakers,
ditching old shepherds for new elephants,
where east and west [cross north]
and beneath black friars forbidden from barking in church,
angels
mind the gap.
On the other hand,
a multi-ride ticket does not send me padding southwark.
Nay rather, like the seven sisters
gardening in the British Museum,
accompanied by penalties,
tooting,
turnpiked,
hackneyed,
Kentish,
cockfostered,
I am advised to expect delays all the way to the loo.
[fr. 286 as pp. 17–18 of The Owner’s Manual of my new Emerson 1000W
microwave oven]
In hot snacks and appetizers, on the one hand, the soy, barbecue, Worcestershire
or steak sauce,
being sprinkled with paprika,
where a “browned appearance” [is desirable]
and beneath the magnetron tube
soggy crackers,
wrapped in bacon,
toughen.
On the other hand, a frozen pancake
will not crust.
Nay rather,
like radio waves,
bubbling,
spattering,
dispersing their spin,
and IMPORTANTLY should you omit to vent the plastic wrap,
or flip the pieces halfway through,
or properly position the special microwave popcorn popper,
[it] will burn your nose right off.
from London Review of Books
JOSEPH CERAVOLO
* * *
Hidden Bird
Song birds enter the morning
the predawn before the fires,
you know, when the night floats away
like vapor on a lake,
or like kisses in the woods.
Songs that even creation
might not remember.
Continuous, threaded, as if
a cherry pit were stuck
in the throat
to produce the trumpet of the branches.
So varies, yet never, changing
through all the days, since
reptiles fell to earth.
I give up the reason for the sound
I give up the creature of sound
and the creator of the creatures
and of us and of dawn and
air and of vacuum
and human inhumanity.
I give up the song.
I give up the place.
from The Nation
HENRI COLE
* * *
City Horse
At the end of the road from concept to corpse,
sucked out to sea and washed up again—
with uprooted trees, crumpled cars, and collapsed houses—
facedown in dirt, and tied to a telephone pole,
as if trying to raise herself still, though one leg is broken,
to look around at the grotesque unbelievable landscape,
the color around her eyes, nose, and mane (the dapples of roan,
a mix of white and red hairs) now powdery gray—
O, wondrous horse; O, delicate horse—dead, dead—
with a bridle still buckled around her cheeks—“She was more smarter than me,
she just wait,” a boy sobs, clutching a hand to his mouth
and stroking the majestic rowing legs,
stiff now, that could not outrun
the heavy, black, frothing water.
from The Threepenny Review
MICHAEL EARL CRAIG
* * *
The Helmet
I spun the helmet on the ground and waited for it to stop. When it didn’t stop, and probably two days had passed, I stood up and began snapping my fingers, just the one hand, my right hand, and I was kind of squatting a little, just bending my knees a bit, and tapping my right foot, and smiling I guess, like I was listening to something, something catchy. And after two more days of this, this finger-snapping, and after seeing that the helmet would continue to spin in the driveway, at this point I began to dance backward toward town, down the long dirt road toward the pavement that would take me to the highway that would eventually take me to town, always dancing and snapping, always moving backward, mile after mile, smiling, really getting down, never looking over my shoulder, falling and getting up, falling and getting up, traveling backward toward town, snapping, smiling, really covering some ground.
from jubilat
PHILIP DACEY
* * *
Juilliard Cento Sonnet
At a Chamber Music Master Class
Use every centimeter of the hair.
That phrase needs elasticity, breathing room.
We need to hear the decoration more.
Her part has so many notes, it’s almost a crime.
Tread lightly here—he’s on his weakest string.
You can be perkier in the lower half of the bow.
Don’t be so punctual; you’re right but you’re wrong.
Trios are three soloists. Soft doesn’t mean slow.
Adjust your arm instead of the violin.
Attack, back off, and then attack again.
Let the sound of the chord decay before you go on.
When you have a rest, take it. You want your touch
to make the piano say, “Ah,” not “Ouch.”
Keep your hand rounded, as if it held a peach.
from New Letters
OLENA KALYTIAK DAVIS
* * *
It Is to Have or Nothing
Of all the forms of being—
I like a table
And
I like a lake.
The excitement of an upandcoming
Mistake:
Do not send word to your lover
If you cannot decide which one.
Involvement, like war, is a form
Of divination. Think
About what you said—or didn’t—
That’s why
it hurts to swallow.
My first words in French?
Cruche, olivier, fenêtre.
Et, peut-être,
Pilier, tour.
Yeah, for a while they were “involved”—
Then they “delved” into
“Abjure.”
Uncertainty more exciting than sex!
We could do serious, but
My lover was NO FUN.
O creamy cloud, indecision, I love you. I love you. I love you.
So badly. So slowly,
I want to enter you
From behind.
O ignorant protagonist
The lineaments of my face—
We had an interval,
A ludicrous,
“Us,” the most fleeting
Of all.
I was
A tachiste, a revenant;
He a revanchist.
Yeah, what felt at what saw.
Listen: the next time you cry it won’t be
At a train station
In France—you died at that scene—
To leave is to leave
Well enough.
I am so—
Not lonely.
Worn and dark was my . . .
Bright blue my . . .
Sometimes you just wanna press Send, thinking
If this is what ends it all, so I am.
I will send you Glück’s purple bathing suit—
even if it kills us.
That’s how I tell the story—“We were involved for a while—long was
Our distance—and, mostly—wrong—finally
I sent him Louise Glück’s ‘Purple Bathing Suit’—
Never to hear from him again.”
The train schedule was an étude.
Was I no longer eager
To study my lover?
In my lap Coleridge’s constancy to an ideal object.
In the end:
A newly cleared
Table.
And, if cleanly forgotten, a little lost
Lake.
from Green Mountains Review
KWAME DAWES
* * *