I think mom’s new dog must have the bones of a kite. I have a lover, now. a he, a beekeeper. a she if she saddens in the nearness. a nothing, a dowry. ghost china. spacesuits for stillborns. under this blanket, a puppet reads to a doll about light. under that, the shape of what goes blind in a poem. I miss you. plural. I don’t wash my forehead. I still bring snow.
be. struck. by. this. …at {isacoustic*}
Susannah Nevison is the author of Lethal Theater (forthcoming from Ohio State University Press in 2019), and Teratology (Persea Books, 2015).
Molly McCully Brown is the author of The Virginia State Colony for Epileptics and Feebleminded (Persea Books, 2017). Beginning fall 2018, she will be an Amy Lowell Fellow.
~*~
Post-Op Letters in the Field Between Us
Dear M—
There’s a whole wild species of things
I don’t know how to name, so instead
I say pain is an engine that stalls
the harder I push it or it’s the stone
in my mouth I can’t quite seem
to spit out. I’m not waiting
for someone else to tell me
what I’m missing. I know numbness
is a quiet fire, a night in, a call again
tomorrow. M, I know sometimes
I go missing, dark, a lightless stretch
of road, so I spit the road out
as I go…
View original post 215 more words
Dark Horse
poems, Kristina Marie Darling
C & R Press, 2018
~
It is no small task to make a poem, or an entire work for that matter, draw one’s eye to what it looked like when envisioned. Hallucinatory and weirdly sane, Kristina Marie Darling’s Dark Horse does just that with a verse that gives eyesight a shadow and with a language that wounds the managed exterior while healing the boundless inner. In the entity of the book’s Jane Dark, we have an existence invented by interrogation, the light of which breaks bone with any ghost asking for sustenance in the court of accumulated personhood. There is such hurt, here, a feast of it open to hermetic pain…but there is also evidence of relocation. I don’t know if we’ve survived creation, nor do I know what it was grief uttered to lose its voice…but I do know I am grateful…
View original post 39 more words
bagging the bright mouse in the deer faith of my youth
(missed
appropriately
by any
father
said bone
is all the light
blood
gets…
proof / my last / ghost
and secrecy
genetic
as a birthmark
on a fingernail
the boy
is young
and scratches
into mother
the unauthored
south
of illness
–
photo is a color
is a scar
raised
on or by
(fuck it)
the moon
–
I have my health / can hide
from god
I have privately published a work of mine consisting of 60 poems that I am calling {mood piece for baby blur}, and am making it available to anyone making a 5.00 or more donation to my poetry journal {isacoustic*}
{mood piece for baby blur} will not be made available in any form but this one.
donation can be made, here:
https://www.paypal.me/BartonSmock
or it can be sent to (bartsmock@gmail.com)
be sure to provide a physical address, to include your name, for the send.
You can check out {isacoustic*}, here:
site: https://isacoustic.com/
facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/Isacoustic-192435501303710/
twitter: https://twitter.com/isacousticVOL
instagram: https://www.instagram.com/isacousticvol/
share, or keep secret.
get a rabbit.
put a penny in the microwave.
run.
ask
for a third
breast
any
size. burn
on a kiss
your son’s
foot.
pretend every day
it’s just
for one.
what moon
were you on
when you lit
that match
when they could still be made
the sounds
that choke
your son
not all of us have a sister and not all of us have a sister whose first job was to run security for a petting zoo.
not even in dream does she have her own room.
her lifetime of sickness
god’s
hidden fondness
for
/ the tattoo.
when she gives birth she gives birth in a field
to a thing that records
her lost
nothingness
& we visit
where nude
we cricket.
kingsoftrain 