Poetry

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Posts in Poetry

Jeff Encke

Mouth Pear

At the touch of a screw the fruit distends in the mouth an arduous barrier between cavity and functional capability the underlying palate soft    a defect of mastication We keep what is lost    the first impression in a child’s putty a denture overcoming the residual ridge of the face Only speech ends the condition of conjunction    the cast of sulci poses the weight of compromise      choice loads of bone made labial the fabrication of principles undercuts the restoration of twang The internal rules of aesthetics, the lean rubber of the educated heat but a simple technique to level and prepare for the thereafter Orientation grooves flush with next steps   the ...

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Shauna Barbosa

And I Know That She Feels Beautiful

We talked at length about her cervix and her decision to no longer perm her hair. A woman at the Cape Verdean salon in Roxbury told her you were more beautiful with long black hair. I told her they’re bitches even though they’re my people. I stared at her curly Sierra Leone sunset making my dead black strands cower. She said when she takes a bath she can feel where they’ve cut her cervix. We have a lot in common though I have not felt my own. Fingers move my unsettled hair around to hide the bald spots. She said ...

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Shauna Barbosa

33

I spent your birthday in Paris while I did not wish you well I danced sweat and cigarette smoke blisters still ruin(ed) a moving body, a foreign unaware unsettled put un before it all the weight of those black drums on a moving ship to Cape Verde all those American ‘goods’ in search of recovery. Continue to “And I Know That She Feels Beautiful” ...

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Shauna Barbosa

GPS

GPS says there’s a Duane Reade a mile from Chinatown. It’s 96 degrees on a Saturday. My chest is wet, my legs are wet. Sweat seeps my contact lenses. I’m coming for you. The taxi driver is West African. You are my sister. I’m changing in the back seat, my bra, my shirt, while he keeps his eyes on the Lincoln Tunnel and his thoughts on women being slaves to their men. I stare at his name and badge number and wonder what his wife in Africa looks like. I really wanted to know what his American woman looks like. ...

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Megan M. Garr

Albus

Light happens to be behind / all wonder, even your little piles. / When I see your / hands and his hands, / earth everywhere, the earth bowled out. / Spores and worms and dirt under your nails. / The start of all starts.

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Megan M. Garr

Terrane

And there at the upturn earth                            we kneel                                                         to speak Color as much as anywhere                                          dear island It is a god’s frenzy that heaves holy water                        into the willing air And it is there silica there obsidian there enough to believe in heaven                                                         But is that fear that tremor or is it fingers tilling this earth to land upon ...

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Megan M. Garr

Terrane

What we leave when we leave A planet somewhere Its aluminum seas If at dawn and if its strands And if its forms and tendons Where the land where there is nothing hushed The glacier’s ablation we are propelled Hold vast fast To the atmosphere its skins The empty empty Miles homewards cold for days No less than stars their shudders No less than home unblinking Wake to this second your Everything summoned on reentry Look now how the city Let fall the land a whole country Continue to “Terrane” ...

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Martina Reisz Newberry

Los Dinamos Creek

In the scratchy grass, I slept until the sun / burned my forehead and thumped my eyelids. // I dreamed that sugar skulls lined up on vendors’ countertops / for Dia de los Muertos, winked at me, stuck out their red jelly tongues.

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Martina Reisz Newberry

A Cete of Badgers, A Sleuth of Bears

In recent dreams, the desert bites at my life, trying to take in pieces what it tried to take all at once while I lived there. In a town of tanned bodies, tanned faces, I stayed pale as a finger bone. Unable to maintain a noble silence, I tore at my hair, ran through the bars and restaurants, my soul nipping at my heels. On the patios where the precious pay dearly for drinks, conversations were made of Os—no silences, no sounds of turning pages. I watched the sun all day, everyday, that 3 o’clock “O be joyful” waiting for me—ice cubes or champagne flutes, it was all the ...

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Tessa Kale

Demeter’s Night Mare

An ancient hand was found; then a limb, a head / on the grounds of the old Greystone mansion: / when they were put together again / they found it was Demeter, from Greece.

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