NEW! Poem by Ethan Paquin

Ethan Paquin

NEIGE [THREE SCENES]

1.

aimless animal-coloured tumbler your library’s aphotically indeterminate

you morning the ground to groggier-than-usual’s millions of earmarks;

there are no students eternal only stop signs to bark commands rufescent,

only stalléd cirri shelves and shelves of them bustling ether of nowhere

only my eyes no millions of other watchers imprecise tumbler heft spills

from the seat of god onto our laps a necklace to be untangled with bones

and a half-erased script and stumps for motivations, ut pictura cirrus this’s

all that comes to mind Latin for curl of hair thus the portrait of a girl who’s

blanched perhaps she’s suffered, perhaps she’s been spooked, likely in love.

2.

in love and staring out a window ut drizzle poesis, so goeth poetry as drizzle,

lovers’ crazy ideas of where their object went the evening before, before snow

tumbled before her eyes saw the result of the katabatic front. Ut drizzle poesis,

long gray nuance between stanzas the meander from cup of tea to the next one,

snow’s meanwhile abstraction an easy metaphor for the week. Young woman

in love as you are please, do not comb your hair—I see you motion for a brush

through the window I watch and clasp myself, do not to the narrative of dawn

surrender, stay wild and pained and look that way. This is not mere entertainment.

Snow tumbles aimless, accretes aphotic my gaze though is fixed upon you.

3.

such sentimental passages about love, weather and fixéd male gazes hunter

as he is, supposedly, of erotic experience wherever to be found. I’m stupid

like dander, or clover. I transcend no fence reach no apple bough. Limitless

are other poetries of the engines, of the random, of the idiomatic, of the popunders

and overt flâneurist grit-amenities. I wear a poem like this like, say,

a dead braid or a last match, bit of its tip scratched off, the thing useless for

cigarette to say nothing of survival or bonfire at the beach where the talk’s

of sex and nothing but sex. A deadened band of cirrus is known to haunt us

at our windows the girl and I like snapped taper candles, outside the snows.

RIP Dennis O'Driscoll

Dennis O’Driscoll

FRAMES

for Patrick Taylor

I.

Rites of spring.
Bring out your dead grass
wedged to the blades
of a dormant lawnmower.
Time for cans of paint,
white spirits, rags.

II.

The cottage garden
in the mauve light
of delphiniums.with honeyed tongues.

Bird notes tossed
like blossoms.
A fern stretching
its wing.

III.

Night snails, pumped up
to full size, plump
as a colony of seals,
make the viscous journey
to a meal of hosta leaves.

IV.

Those daffodils,
you’d know it was
their first time:

so open, so eager to please,
so bright, so upright,
so unaware.

V.

The raw nerve of yearning
triggered off by hawthorn,
by the green of far-off hills
seen from your top-floor office
when sun pays out its light.

VI.

That it might 
always be spring,
a held note.

That we might
look forward
to long days

of growth:
haze lifting
like a screen,

waves peeling
off the Gulf Stream
one by one.


(from Verse Volume 21 #s 1-3)

NEW! Poem by Aaron Apps

Aaron Apps

FLESHLIKE ACTIVITIES

Suppose the arbitrary violence that is bound into action shapes us. Sexes us. Suppose each of us is oriented like an anchored vessel on a caustic sea. Suppose each vessel is anchored by a thousand strings of yarn that have no weight as they disintegrate in the acid body of the ocean. Fibrous expanse. Suppose each line of fiber within each strand of yarn is the type of vessel that pumps blood. Suppose further each small fiber is the type of vessel that holds the dark things themselves that move forward to what the dark hollow the mouth calls “now.” Now spoken out of the empty echoing tube that runs down into a series of fleshlike activities. Flesh bound by arbitrary violence. The violence of a thick thread. If the supposition is made that the acts of moving utterance are followed by a fire of wires is the binding principle that holds each contingent instance together believable? Livable? For each principle that is a thing amid a multiplicity of things there is a sense behind it. A sense of the plenum around which activity gathers. Split end, thread bare, eye wire. See: we might have a sense of what it means to echo the word “nature” after the word “now.” We might cut our own eye off. We might cease to be we. We might bend like the dark line of the sexed I. I suppose that these threads are sexed bodies perceiving down a tangle within a current within a tangle within a flood. I suppose that the violence of the flood is unavoidable as vomit after swallowing a gallon of opaque eye milk.

NEW! Poem by Anis Shivani

Anis Shivani

TIMEX


I capsize newspapers in water. I shake myself free of watchwords. I hang balloons on wounded sticks, the balcony gold-latticed on the truant morning, the moon a waxy after-effect smudged like conversation. Music, lavish and omnipresent, squeezes between drachmas and bangles. My deck of cards falls like a waterfall. My mother calls me inside in a voice splintered like a thousand bees on the same mission. Sunlight washes over my soft thighs and knees like a baby’s croons. The fly’s intermittent buzz reminds me of forgotten lessons. Time is a century of turquoise pools facilitating suicide. My first watch is a gift of anxiety. Now seconds count. How long can I hold my breath? Palm trees whip in the wind like runaway children. My mother calls again, from the other side of the moat, unable to tickle my ears. A line of ants, curving like serious S’s, forecasts future earthquake cracks. The dark stairways of my hundred-year-old building steal me like a pasha’s only son, hunting in the garden alone at night, kissed by talented witches. The weight of the building is like ten earthquakes occurring simultaneously in a moment. Yellow and red almirahs unfurl their metal skin for a stolen touch or two, laughing at their open secrets. Each morning is like every other until I split it open, the street is a parade ground for costumed vendors with voices like melons, the smell of boiled potatoes makes me believe no one can ever be sick or poor. I steal time and the world lets me. My mother calls a last time, fanning herself with the lazy newspaper. I ought to be a child detective like in my favorite books, but the tar streets and black palms and drunk pools are too friendly, they all want to pat me, they won’t fight back. 

NEW! Poem by rob mclennan

rob mclennan


A SINGLE STREAK, PURE WHITE OF SKY

1.

If the day quickened, ear
on the chest,

arrhythmic. Stop,
and go slow,

slow.

2.

Make of threads, to drawn,
an island

dead, unaided. We,
a person.

3.

Graph, should
something happen,

to forget

would be
impassable.

NEW! Review of Elizabeth Robinson

Counterpart by Elizabeth Robinson. Ahsahta Press, $17.95.

Reviewed by Aromi Lee

Elizabeth Robinson’s twelfth collection of poetry, Counterpart, consists of thirty-five poems, grouped and anchored by epigraphs taken mostly from her contemporaries. Her author’s statement explains that the poems focus on “the uncanny presence that one recognizes and yet does not.” Robinson’s uncluttered, hypnotic lines are both subtle and bold in her examination of the fear that the self and language are mutable, unpredictable, even sinister and hostile. Her poems center on the possibility of a dialogue with the self about the self, and one can become lost in the web of self-reflexivity that ensues. The confrontations of self and self may yield nothing, and the fear of finding nothing haunts these poems. Nevertheless, the willingness to peel back the layers of ‘self’ and face the shadows of these self-encounters drives the momentum of Counterpart. 

The book’s first poem, “Turn,” introduces a cyclical nature that recurs throughout: the “one sharp kernel” becomes a “bitter seedling,” and out of that seed “comes / the green aperture.” The “green aperture” is described in similar terms as the seedling: it is “bitter, tender, self- / pursuing.” The seed and the green aperture are outwardly different, yet both are “bitter,” pointing to a cycle at work: the seed becomes the green aperture, and the cycle starts over. It is revealing that this first poem is prefaced by a quote from Charles Baudelaire (“You find it pleasing to plunge into the bosom of your image”), for it is an invitation to the reader to join the speaker on this inward journey, to listen in on the speaker’s “interior conversations.” In another quote, this inward journey is imbued with a sense of urgency; Barbara Guest calls “the act of discovering where the self starts, hears itself, and repeats the instructions” “a necessity.” This urgency, coupled with the central question of “Who am I?” posed by André Breton in the next epigraph, propels readers into the next set of poems, the first of which is aptly titled “Studies for Hell: I.”

The first word of “Studies for Hell: I” is the pronoun “I,” with its self-possession, yet immediately this ease is refuted as the “I” is revealed as “a hand,” or rather, one part of the human body is put forth as representative of the whole. The problem of the “I” in conveying the self is alluded to in a later poem as the speaker says, “One site of the alphabet / needs mending.” What further destabilizes readers attempting to track the identity twists that bombard them from the outset is the shift from the “I” to a “She.” But the slippery, metamorphic representations of the self do not end there, for an identity bifurcation occurs as a result: 

I, a hand, reached into the sea for a piece of the sea.

What I brought out,

piece of liquid, split my hand in two.

Spilt.

And from the gash came an interpolation
fascinated with its own blood. 

…

She had turned around or inside out

and found herself spelt as two. 

What begins with a stable “I” somehow ends with “two.” The metaphoric representation of the self parallels the metamorphic unreliability of language. That it is “spelt” and not “split” or “spilt” is telling. The transformation that occurs in the poem is what happens when one tries to reflect something with a broken mirror: its shards are unable to reflect an exact representation of the subject, instead only able to reflect a splintered image that is similar and dissimilar to the subject. In an initial reading, readers may glide over Robinson’s subtle word play in that their eyes and minds might impose the comforting structure of parallels: they may read not “found herself spelt as two,” but “found herself split as two.” This raises the question of what the speaker truly meant: perhaps “split” or “spilt” instead of “spelt.” Does this signify the speaker’s loss of control over language, or the trickiness of language? This dizzying line of inquiry is exactly the danger the speaker risks in Robinson’s poems, where there may be no answers, only reflections.

Despite the desire for “pronouns to take on the corporeal,” to accurately name and give shape to the uncanny, they resist such easy definitions for “they are like the static of a sick-dream, / almost amenable and at the same time, / frizzy, off their marks.” Readers are confronted with an uncanny other, one who is like and unlike us, a macabre Narcissus “fascinated with its own blood.” In exploring this other, the speaker envisions flesh as a possible point of entry: “Here’s a fleshy zipper / that opens in my belly, and I unzip and open and then / there I go. Inside and down the path.” Yet this approach seems too superficial and there are distinct limits: 

I fit the flesh legs over my 

own, I wear the blue eyes atop my own vision. I double

back my own tongue to let it taste itself.

But I taste another body’s voice.

Perhaps the failure of this descent reflects instead the ouroboric nature of the self which resists neat definitions or explanations. The reflexive journey of the speaker is made hellish in that as soon as the speaker comes close to locating the self, it reproduces, transforms, doubles, and slips from the speaker’s grasp. Not only is it impossible to see the end of this journey, but the unpredictability of an end that multiplies and reflects back upon the wanderer is fraught with danger for “Whoever would try to find hell / will only get lost again.” Like the Narcissus of myth, the speaker will be doomed if he/she fails to resist his/her image’s seductive hypnosis and does not recognize it as mere reflection. This is no easy task, for the

Identical merges with identity: 

one holds in one’s body (Twin, Irony, Narcissus),
like its own
trinket, a name repeated. 

And similar to the journey fraught with danger, the poems are fraught with mirrors that the speaker and reader must carefully navigate: “The lost photograph found again, / become[s] a mirror.” Later in the collection, 

When one looks at the devils

nesting on the devil, one has

the impression of being caught

in a hall of mirrors. 

The desire to say “At last,” in a neat summation of the self, seems a feeble, laughable dream. The power and longevity of the mirror are absolute: “the mirror is / Eternally and eventually reflective.” In what is perhaps the speaker’s weakest moment, he/she laments: 

Why is it so difficult, always, to recognize
a thing for what it is.

The naked is flat, is a syllogism that leads

criss-cross to

a fragile repetition of its own image, called movement.

This is one of the rare moments in the poems where the speaker is direct. The query ends with a period, connoting a somber acceptance on the speaker’s part. Whereas the speaker has previously approached the search for the self through fragmented, ambiguous lines, furtive glances, veiled, gently probing sentences, the speaker abandons those approaches in this moment of exhaustion. Readers may feel similarly drained. Robinson seems to hint that the very act of looking inward, of searching for that elusive ‘self,’ necessitates a suspension of disbelief or a shift in perspective. One must accept a surreal, upside-down outlook, an overturning of the natural order: “The purpose of the blanket / is not to cover but to fall”; “the trap door leads / ultimately / up”; dreams, not people, are placated; and voices are doubled (“the voice recognizes its hoarseness as echo”). The search for the self necessitates an acceptance of these contradictions while evading the dangers of this exploration. Readers can get lost in this self-reflexive hell, become trapped in an ouroboric existence, and, in the words of Laura Moriarty, create ourselves “to death.” 

Furthermore, language as a means to navigate these shifting waters becomes suspect. In Robinson’s poems, language becomes just as slippery, unstable, deceptive, and warped as the self it attempts to name, sometimes even assisting in the permutations. With minute displacement of letters, “split” becomes “spilt” and “spelt.” In “Sanctuary,” thief and victim are conflated: “do you mind, she asked, / if I steal a bit from you.” This phrase is then “murmured to myself,” and the repetition transforms the words, “bit as in bite,” further complicating meaning. “Word after word” folds “in on itself” in self-reflexivity. The inadequacy of language to name and identify ‘self’ is represented as “pointing fingers…broken off at the stem.” Language’s destruction accelerates towards the ending of Counterpart. “Studies for Hell: II” begins with full statements:

Whoever would try to find hell
will only get lost again.

…

Some antonym, hell-like, elides with hell,

melting on your tongue.

As if the strain of maintaining order were too great, the poem collapses into word scraps:

Infantile devil, funhouse, ocean-for-drowners,

mismap, obligation, blowhole, itching bites, gloss

and paternity, blue sea of alcohol, toxic resemblance and
synonym, synonym. 

And language is most seriously crippled in “Studies for Hell: III”: 

We like singed feathers. Quills. Ink.

We drew our parts with them, two-faced,

apart. Singing or singed,

…

Nacreous heat. Quills

quell

the growth.

…

Nacreous

circle hardening. Ashes,

ahs, eyes fall down.

…

re-membered in the 

air hand in hand with the air.

Ere. Err. Janus-faced wing. 

Language, that traditional mode of elucidation, is revealed as unstable and fallible. It can be misleading as even letter permutations can create new meanings. However, the destruction of language is configured as a necessity for “how better to translate / than to destroy.” But just as the poems are rife with dualities, so too does this destruction have a double. Language’s flexibility lies in its instability. As words are deconstructed, they are also constructed. With sleights of hand, “singing” becomes “singed” and “quills” become “quell.” The sense that the speaker loses control over language is coupled by a sense of playful abandonment. The cat-and-mouse game to tack down meaning with words is frustrating yet enjoyable. In the breakdown of language there is sound: “ashes” glides to the aural “ahs,” which is then echoed back in the homophone-like “eyes.” And if these are not enough to convince readers of Robinson’s language play, there are many instances in which the speaker takes on a puckish tone: he/she declares that “Beauty is vanity’s quackery”; proposes “a toast” to “the image who / was graven, recognized, / recognized, or fallen. / May you resurge”; and wryly states that “The paternal devils pats / his own back.” There may be no clarity by the end of this jaunt through hell but, at the very least, it will be a lively one. 

Though there is little doubt that Counterpart’s landscape is bleak, this desolation is not without its reassurances. The last poem’s title, “Secret Eden,” hints at this. The speaker instructs, “Speak, tongue, with your obedient quiet. Divide, / but do not be divisive.” The inherent contradiction of speaking with “obedient quiet” is partially reconciled by the calm command to “divide” but “do not be divisive” because it offers a way in which both can be held as truths: it recognizes that division does not have to be alienating. The command continues,

Now say blessing on the stem, the seed,

the orders of reproduction,

flanked on all sides by

destination.

Pronounce pulp and juice. How they divide from each other 

as a fork in the road. 

The language here is neat: we have “orders” and “destination” as opposed to the disorder and lack of destination that has haunted the poems. The difference between “pulp” and “juice” is likened to something as natural “as a fork in the road,” and thus places the disturbingly open-ended question of the nature of the ‘self’ in the territory of ‘unknowable yet essential.’ Thus the declaration that “death’s doppelganger is truth” should not unsettle, but instead should comfort in its offering of an absolute in a world fraught with infinite plasticity. Robinson’s unstable ground is still a space for that kind of declaration, and, almost defiantly, the statement is re-printed in larger font two pages before the title page. The entropic landscape of Counterpart should not overwhelm readers with its disquieting probing, but should offer them new terrain for exploration. 

NEW! Poem by Maureen Thorson

Maureen Thorson

GRAY LADY

Abstracted

in the stacks,

where time

disintegrates

old news,

I won’t volunteer

to tend

the ghosts

of headlines,

rustling,

as they do,

a shade

too quietly,

even here.

Instead,

my researches

will brew

fresh happenings.

Clipped

with severe,

short strokes,

these serifed 

shapes

will braid

the notes

for novels

that I’ll stew

from almanacs,

obituaries,

the want ads’

misspelled

inquiries.

I’ll sieve

the sparkle

from human

interest,

the mad

percussion

of the war

reports.

The fastest

way (but 

not 

the simplest)

to write

is to distort

the veil

between

homage

and theft.

Nothing’s new

beneath

the sun,

but deft

reweavings

can gleam

as near

as makes

no difference.

Hand me now

my shears—

I flex them

to the music

of the spheres.

NEW! Two poems by Nicole Walker

Nicole Walker

Two poems

EL NINO

I watch the Phoenix news as if it were my own. 

The swirls tell me what I already expected:

This will be a hard winter. Phoenix doesn’t know 

winter but it absorbs our weather all summer long.

I watch the swirl on the ultrasound. It makes a bee-

line for my body parts.  The future unwraps like an umbilicus 

and I am tugged along like a turtle trapped in an ebb.

 I should have built a softer shell. This one is hard to adjust.

It’s hard to take fifteen feet of snow. They predict 

even more. Doppler radar is faithful to its Pacific, 

its jet stream, its warm, Baja trends. The deception

lies in the big gray spirals that seem so warm and fecund. 

I lie on the table and wonder what the ceiling can tell

me that the sonogram can’t. How much does one (more) life 

weigh? One thousand stone or a skeleton as light

as birds? And which to prefer? Birds are so damn fragile. 

I don’t want to be the one to break the news. The flat roofs 

can’t handle that much snow. The ground has absorbed

all it can absorb. There should be some equation: force

equals expectation plus belief, divided by barometer.

It always disappoints, the image on the screen. 

You want to see more. You want to reach in there

and touch nose, make belief out of vessel and skin. 

But shadows are as reliable as wings sans feather.

In the spring I sit on the porch. The clouds gather around

the peaks like they want to nest there. A vulture

crashes against the wind in waves. I wonder what loud

omen a vulture makes—snow, rain, go home, reverse.

I need sound. If wide-eyed anticipation is butterflies

then this humming in stomach is a bevy of red worm 

expectation, a hive of oh my god, a cold comb of precipitate 

turning forewarning into predictable, warm rain.

BEES, KEYS, SEALED

I put my ear to her chest

to hear the murmur of the bees.

They’re stuck in there

whirring like blenders

scaling the honeycomb

of her lungs 

knitting the sacs

tighter together

until the whole nest

is a plate of unmovable honey.

NEW! Poem by Molly Bendall

Molly Bendall

SEASON OF PERPETRATORS

They dream as if their plights were real, they flinch and scrape.

If speed ever once
shivered for them, if a heat thermal came pushing up,

they’d devour their own future,  and they’d sell off
their fortune:  one yard, one boulder.
 
A green gel comes between us
then springs back so the lens fades to blue, but it’s not like floating,
it’s closer,
and there’s a flap of skin. The keeper

says they’re nursing that wound.

Not a scent of threat, more like preening, more like a wedding,
coral trees assemble behind.

Flexing into thought, I’m woozy
with lateness.

Their pompadours  are a tangle of magic straw.  
I give way
to wide words cast on the hillside, as their pink tongues

stab the black air, rank and sinew steadfast.

NEW! Poem by Maureen Thorson

Maureen Thorson

BROWNIAN MOTION

Physicist,

take heed:

A vinelet’s

dust-like

pollen,

dispersed

on ponds

in purling

streaks,

forms points 

of random 

increase

befitting study.

A famous

oracle

was formed

by fumes

whose molecules

resembled

these—

just so 

our every

sparking

synapse swans,

producing

personality

by irregular

degrees,

selves

alterable—

up to a point—

by remembered

melodies,

unanticipated

touches,

the grand

chancy, quantum

scheme

of things.

I think—

at least,

I think I do—

that our

enraptured brains,

strung 

with memes

like Christmas

trees,

garlanded

in glowing rings,

are tangled 

skeins 

defying 

explanation.

Outlook hazy.

Try again.

From dust to dust,

we succumb

to bleak causation,

but effects

are hard to forecast:

For every bet

that loses,

one will win.

NEW! Poem by Nicole Walker

Nicole Walker

RATTLE

I bring to you, dear doctor, this mess of nests.

An intricate ball of string or white floss.

A rug woven by a woman sitting in a stall 

in the mall speaking Navajo to me and

Spanish to her brother. I pull out of my pocket

a wire from the cable, the one that brought

me delicatessen and sausage McMuffin

and foiegras in Illinois even though 

it’s illicit. I tell you this list

to give you some parameters

to suggest diagnosis and symptom,

cure, and preposition all in one. 

I know where my trunk lies. I know where 

my arms are but it’s against wind feed

and wind chill, wander zone and last pull

that I wonder. My nerves bite here and here, 

they’re couched

in pork fat and goose fat, pickled 

in cucumbers and red wine. They’re wrapped 

up in sweater and rug and the birds that sing

softly in my ear, dear doctor, are the ones

telling me that if you could just say

the word I would leave you alone but

I hear you tripping as sadly and as quickly

as I do over nest, branch, wire, string. 

If we could tease this out, dear doctor,

you wouldn’t have to listen through that cold

piece of an ear and I, dear doctor, could walk

away from here, named and meant and promised,

etched like a headstone, dear doctor. Sewn.

NEW! Two poems by Molly Bendall

Molly Bendall

Two poems

CONVERGE IN RAUCOUS BRANCHES

I take to
her shoe-sized hovel and decaying forsythia. 
Let’s go for the instant snow fall,

get marooned on the stone porch.
Now too, tranquilized,

she’ll pad down the gnarled rope, tap the corners in.

Go again. Again. Lift her up
by the scruff

Pocket the thistle and vole fur,

and this one sings loose and regretful, a pollen-tinted face.
Right as doing. Wait for the drop date.

I’m near emptied
so follow the burned-out drawer

and the plastic shards in
a chain of wind. 
Pull a name into the chatter and wed it to
your fixes.

She’s got brooding duties and weaves with horsehair and cools
with her shadows.


MONDAY GUARDIAN

When you’re
in too close
the mouse bones soften and settle in tight.

Come down when the tension wires undo. My glove
could smoothe
a network
but you’re part missing even as you kick up and up.

Every minute thinks
of passing sky, every milky bowl shuns a sooty back.

I’ve zeroed
in on your sumptuous reach. Lost when I remember

you most, and then you fall

asleep in the U petals.  

I’ll be one of those who talks back,
not dainty
too much.

A stone’s throw and a sob back to you,
and I’ll be one who gnaws at the capillaries

so sing your invitation now,
invite me to inspect

your starter home, place your decoy on the thin blue rim.

NEW! Poem by Anne Elvey

Anne Elvey

THE WIND

What hammers next door replacing stumps 
weighs on my frame, as voices measure work 
and a saw circles through a post to level things. 

The angels dance on leaf tips, their skirts churn. 
I keep the windows closed. The Bureau says 
the northwest wind will turn to the south. Stumps 

lie on the drive. Doors slam. A roof lifts, sudden 
as the air that balloons and buckles the fabric 
of a world. There are no cicadas, only a fury 

of angels brushing wings against the sky. 
Forget the past, they say, you cannot level your 
house; the wind is your heart’s hammer.

NEW! Three poems by William Cordeiro

William Cordeiro

Three poems

JUST BECAUSE JUST BECAUSE

The day so young 

it rivers with mercy.

Each body mostly water

in a world mostly water

but physics only make me

thirsty.  

   

Look at the sun

skim across the eyes.  

You see, 

even logic’s innocent.

Then why—then why?

Some leak or fibrillation 

of my heart replies,

amid a twitchy phosphorescence

whilst squeaky shopping carts turtle down the aisles,

“if only fools were drunk with wishes.”

SHARAWADGI

The landscaper trespasses to the river

gushing brimful of wanderlust and lady

slippers, great alphabet, goosepimpled

with a million golden bees, as daylight’s

dizzy sting keeps dazzling the naked eye:

from crown to soles, flaunt overflowing 

round each glitch, the heart’s ski lifted 

up a steep, a-dangle in the glitter over clastic 

rock and vatic air, before it’s gentled down 

a bank; meanwhile inside, his quick caged motor-

cycle gyroscopes as if he’d just been given 

tenure. Afterward, a volunteer, he’d tottle

back to wavy shelves or some faux waterfall 

to craft dry temporary tracks through pebbles,

twist bonsai into stunted runts and palps,

raking level mulch chips over little bird skulls 

into vegetative fables, sheering and tweaking

moss, or, garroting in hand another cranky 

leaf-blower, give one good tug to whoosh

dead mush into new monuments of gold 

amid a smoother hobble of the earth, that 

fund he trusts he could not but inherit. 

SUSPENDED ANIMATION

The sidewalks gridlock with their litter’s drift. 

Like oil slicks, the sunlight shocks and riddles

to crevice glare down every street; gray sky’s 

bloodshot. Over blank brick roofs, one flock 

zigzags. Flak of scattered pigeons hang on fire 

escapes. All Brooklyn’s mesmerized and blown

down turns of stale obstructed zones, a range

of snaggletooth cranes. Beyond a broken half-

hearted barrier: a muddy ditch, planks, links 

of pipe. Gulls pick bedraggled feathers, skip 

or shuffle; loose news-leaf hustles by—daily papers

ruffle a city’s schmutz, a pressed off smudge of ink.

NEW! Two poems by Nicole Walker

Nicole Walker

Two poems


PLANET HOSPITAL

When the birds started falling from the ceiling 
we knew it was time to close the building. 

The alarms had been going off like smoke detectors.
Fathers in their open-backed gowns, their Pacemakers

twittering reflectors high on the mountain,
flashing warnings to planes and come-hithers

to more foreign, flying aircraft—like condors 
or moons. Those in the infectious wards kept

moving from floor to floor, continents 
drifting toward them. The quarantine signs hung 

around their necks—albatrossed Town Car drivers 
welcoming fliers at the baggage claim at JFK. 

The patients in the burn unit slid into their emissions,
the viruses coating the blistered skin in down. Gooseflesh. 

The cancer patients kept falling in bed with 
the amputees. Watching their sex was like watching 

parrots molt—more slow organization than rhythmic 
wandering.  The mothers in Labor and Delivery were

the ones to notice the air, how heavy it hung. 
They’d been staring at ceilings, pressing tectons closed 

with their thighs. The twigs and straw didn’t bother them. 
They could inhale past that. But it was the mud and the saliva

that began to tuck up in the lungs. Every cough reminded
the mother there was no going back now. Volcanoes permit

more options than this fluorescent system. The door out 
is the door out, not other. Sidewalks are for suburbs, not planets.

We kept pointing the flue out the window, pushing it further 
and further into the stratosphere to find new sky. The babies

in the NICU were turning blue. It didn’t look good but there was
a chance this blue turns Jay and flight becomes a regressed chance for air.  

ST. CHARLES STREET

It is our hospital, this concrete. In the hot
sun it is as sterile and white as linen.

The sidewalk squares, once sutured, now
rupture. The ground underneath is seething,

infected like the little boy who is lying on 
it now (it is not flat enough. We’ll have to bring

the backboard. An old ironing board, my aunt uses
for just these breaking occasions. The ironing can 

wait.)  His fingers dig into the new earth and we 
tell him that it’s rotten but he wants to feel the cool

under his nails and what else can we burden him 
with but stops and pleases. We know there is no

doctor to call. We had called the 911 before and they told us
St. Charles is not on their map. I gave them directions—

Follow the L until you run out of gas. Our street
is the one where the cars don’t run. But it turns night here

before it turns night anywhere else in this city and 
this city has already sold its share of the moon to a drought-

ridden state. Now the streets buckle, the kids tumble,
the ice packs are warm water and the sea under

the street heaves. It wants its antibiotic. We’ve run out
of spackle and glue and sand for mixing. We’ll have

to give it the boy. He seems to want in anyway and even
though he’s  lying flat (The ironing has been waiting days now),

the sores are open. Catching. The ground as it breaks still 
wounds him. We turn him over so he can’t feel a thing.