ROBIN WYATT DUNN – NEW MEN

New men

We’re designing new men

macerated men

cut to length

arbiter of luck

maker of stage

metal men

flesh men

 

huge and triumphant

unable to remember or feel

 

men made out of iron

and lace

 

men who whistle

and club words off of pages

and the names out of children’s mouths

 

what luck with forgetting

the forgetting men

 

made new and bright

made out of everything you’d seen

from the lighthouse in Windsor and Bohemia

and older places

 

watching them move into the light and out of it

while you shouted their names

to see if they could move in time

~

find Robin here

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POETRY: Summer Qabazard – LEXAPRO

Lexapro

Trust this young pair of lips

professing what only
a page should learn

I’m a phdiddleedee

Full of    lala

Inhaling your    blahbla

I’ll be your puppet
if you suck it

I’m looking for
Narnia

Wonderland

There’s no pill    for you

Alice?

Lucy?

The names of the body
parts you’re looking for
are irrelevant

I need to do an independent study

in    you

I    can   keep a secret

Orifice hours
are by appointment only

Today began with vaping
and ended  with the professor

I’m property of the graduate department

Return if lost

Run if lost

Oh

Merry, merry Christmas!

Grad school is delicious

Oh

You

May experience loss of  people
May experience loss of  self
May experience loss of  language

Unspeaking of language

No end
No such end
No such thing

We jellyberry
coolshock
against your office wall

And it’s hard to    swallow
with your brains    in me

Doc

With my

young
red
beating
heart

in your mouth

Your lips

pink
with laughter

Doc

It’s hard

to swallow

I glow

a blunt    flinging attention
’til you cranberry

And it’s the lovefest of the year

Coming ’til we’re dust

~

Find Summer Qabazard online.

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POETRY: SETH JANI – SULPHUR OR WOOD

Sulphur or Wood

It’s the first thing upon waking:
The outline of your loss
Like a bare sun in the morning trees.
Before you can even recall specifics
The longing hits you, cold and absolute.
Your own name, still lost in the dark
Of sleep, yet this feeling rising
Through your body
Like a rage or sickness.

It’s the kind of thing you feel
When you realize the best of days
Have passed before you, and you
Missed the music.
Regret so palpable, you can call it
Sulphur or wood.
The simplest of news holds no richness
Against the fiber of this grief.
It moves through your life
Until the world is full of ghosts
In passing.
It burns for no other reason
Than for the love of ashes.
Something in you so quietly razed
That no one at the kitchen table
Can see the chilled fire
Eating at your eyes.

 

visit Seth Jani online

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POETRY: MAXINE KUMIN – AT THE END OF THE AFFAIR

At The End Of The Affair

That it should end in an Albert Pick hotel
with the air conditioner gasping like a carp
and the bathroom tap plucking its one-string harp
and the sourmash bond half gone in the open bottle,

that it should end in this stubborn disarray
of stockings and car keys and suitcases,
all the unfoldings that came forth yesterday
now crammed back to overflow their spaces,

considering the hairsbreadth accident of touch
the nightcap leads to-how it protracts
the burst of colors, the sweetgrass of two tongues,
then turns the lock in Hilton or in Sheraton,
in Marriott or Holiday Inn for such
a man and woman-bearing in mind these facts,

better to break glass, sop with towels, tear
snapshots up, pour whiskey down the drain
than reach and tangle in the same old snare
saying the little lies again.

 

This poem appeared in the 1973 anthology Contemporary Poetry in America , edited by Miller Williams.

If you dig Maxine Kumin, check out her newly released memoir The Pawnbroker’s Daughter.

 

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POETRY: Jessica Wiseman Lawrence – Birds

Birds

 

 

Water breaks for Terns and Petrels

diving to an unknown thing,

then up from water into air –

with no clumsy shaking or annoyance –

for them this is life and as easy as the atmosphere.

 

I saw a little grey sparrow land on a fence

when I arrived at a place I promised I’d be.

My car hummed,

and everything was humming,

and everything was noise.

We are just noise to everything.

 

Ahead, two crows pecked at grass, at seemingly nothing,

and feasted on worms and fleas

ignored. We toss simple things

away, we’ve thrown up

 

our hands to more food than could feed

countries full of children.

There is no flight enough to make us

comfortable with the animals we are.

There is nothing enough to make us the birds

we could be.

 

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