Genre: Poetry

Caretta Caretta

Issue 6 | Summer 2021 |

    What ancient source surges your body to surface for the sake of your children? Caretta caretta, teach me to write in the sand a map erasable by wind. Your dome of scutes suits you: a home that hovers with every paddle, every devoured Aurelia, every open-eyed rest with forelimbs spread, in the season …

What Might Be Known

Issue 6 | Summer 2021 |

    We believed we were bees. We were work and sleep, work and sleep. We believed nectar and honey. We believed queen and sting. We believed we were we. In a recess in the maze wall, a bowl of grapes offered by a bronze hand. Glass fruit, a cold hand. It says only I …

Día de Los Muertos

Issue 6 | Summer 2021 |

    Memory: the place we lay our loves to rest. Today the grave is lined with marigolds, each remembered kiss a fistful of fire. My first true boyfriend appears in photos of a parade through Torreón. It’s night where he lives. He glows under festival lights, more handsome, somehow, than before. I trace the …

To Only, to Just

Issue 6 | Summer 2021 |

    To forgo classification and analysis to be the salt in the shaker the sheet on a bed to rest as parted lips to breathe in rhythm and convert into molecules to release as in relinquish to hug the bank and move the direction you’re urged to repose as a boat at rest atop …

Metal and Glass

Issue 6 | Summer 2021 |

    In the milky glass of sleep, you dream of leading students on a field trip to a place you have no earthly idea how to find. The memory’s metal barbs scrape the delicate skin of morning. What I want to tell you is as upright and true as the white cosmos in the …

Misspoke

Issue 6 | Summer 2021 |

    A ship, you say, is in the garden. A ship. A sheep. A swallow. Water. Land.      Air.                          You speak without realizing you have misspoke. And why not water? Nights of little sleep, the bed was a berth, the walls a hull. The lawn an ocean. The hill a swell. We stand by the …

Flesh Wound

Issue 6 | Summer 2021 |

       the barest nick where smoothness    used to slide where waves    now emanate lick soft sounds    along the day an almost-pain    as meditation a tiny chime    within the body the faintest call    from some abyss I can’t make out    but can’t dismiss