Grief cuts itself from the movie it wants to make about wind. I design, sometimes, hats in a dream. I don’t mean every word. I thought loneliness would be taller, that’s all. Not this god who knows we exist.
It was sick for three minutes and lived for eight. I haven’t seen a picture in so long that I’m not sure you’d know me unless I was there. The dream is using us to remember god.
Toxicon And Arachne
poems, Joyelle McSweeney
Nightboat Books, 2020
Of course, being a weak writer, I want to say rare. I want to say rare in as few words as possible in the direction of Joyelle McSweeney’s Toxicon And Arachne. Somewhere two toothaches are perhaps reunited. Somewhere one is unpinned from the world while feeling in the dark for a donkey born without a tail. I also want to say playful, but no. Sadness loses all its money to sorrow and there is a jovial genius to the trauma of wordplay. I think what McSweeney does is done with what I’ll call, in my lack, the endangered available. Mouth of a gift hearse. Erasure’s only prediction. From such given, McSweeney recreates addendum without precedent. Think of what one hasn’t read, that is being written, and how briefly it will exist unwitnessed. And how fast the work of de-witness…
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so obvious was paper cut’s love for scar
night
wouldn’t hurt
a shadow
Dream returns little more than a medicine cup’s worth of water to match the amount once hired by a bullet to take pictures of a mother’s ankle. I want to whisper it isn’t our mother but mostly we’re here to name simultaneously those we imagine are looking passively at the thing we stopped touching. No matter whose baby was the first to say jinx, I know how to learn nothing.
handmade
would you
believe
The stone has one thought before it dies
and that thought
turns it
to stone
(The trick is to lose every child
Or is it
each
the ghost
invents
color
there is in fact a time
exactly like
the present
kingsoftrain 