review of Meghan McClure’s Portrait of a Body in Wreckages at ~ isacoustic* ~
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all previews on-site are books in their entirety. will send free hard copies to those interested in writing a review, free PDFs to anyone requesting. (bartonsmock@yahoo.com)
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recent poems:
[seasonals]
i.
hypnotized by those who feel no pain
death
is also
short
ii.
a bowl of soup
in the dark.
far off,
a turtle
~
[waker]
mouth pain / in a clean / house
–
the weight
of sister
–
the passwords of worried creatures
a stroller’s
body
of work
–
treeless (quiet)
~
[from a letter to my body]
when there are no mothers, I will crawl toward the one sitting with what her legs couldn’t burn and I will ask my blood to be the same fish
~
[1995]
and poem looked to me like the eyesight that stayed behind. claw and wing were the oars of my father’s blank craft. every boy in Ohio was a girl in a bookstore caring for the latest creature of a flat god. sadness hadn’t yet moved on from its stick figures and mothers were still blowing into perfectly round balloons. pale dog drank from a paint can. color could see, and see only, the future. a pinkness left my brother for the wrong kind of milk. sister had been hugging those angels
couldn’t bend their arms. zero
(that wizard
of the non
event)
was buying up land.
~
[frost]
as one might misplace
the remains
of a non
muscular
child, there is
in the spiritual ache
of a gas station
a form
reshaped
by the work
of its leaving
~
[we gave to the poor]
the leg I called footprint. the bread that had skin.
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sample poems, as such, at {isacoustic*}:
ONE INNOCENT, by Alex Hoshor
seems I’ve already
written the preface
to your story
about watching the
angels fly after
my body as
it scattered from
heaven into the
starving bellies of
distant enough wolves
three nights ahead
I was dreaming
of you kissing
me just softly
between my eyes
and of children
chasing a lamb
around the silence
of a grave
/
IT’S ALWAYS THE SMALL THINGS, by Agnieszka Mauch
The shadow house is open
all rooms butchered
to the gore
of emptiness
A moon in the pond of the living room
is grinning
it has a face like thistles,
teeth like sightings at 3 am
it feeds me this setup
each time
I am torn apart like some door
to a revered space
sobbing out glass and blood
in the toy aisle
not knowing
what to wear
to a funeral
your lookalike
the hoarder
of mirrors
Alex Hoshor has three poems at ~ isacoustic* ~
we had balloons
we called them
eggs
–
it weakened
us
to have
knees
–
skin enough
for two
that poor
snake
saddest
when peeling
an orange
these days
of sink
and crib, the earth
in parts
flat
review of marshland moon (poems by eleanor gray, Dink Press, 2016) at ~ isacoustic* ~
moan, fossil. how do my feet look in my mother’s belly? my heart is a pink flame / is my father’s / fingernail. father calls me antler. I don’t know this yet. I will be shot
by many hands.
recent, at ~ isacoustic* ~
/////////////////
Darren C Demaree
…all that
yellow we code-named
“bird-watching” – {from} EMILY AS WE, SPARINGLY
//////////////////
Eleanor Gray
hunger has taken the shape of a coyote, crossing the white field
///////////////////
Heather Minette
Instead, he smiled a cheekbone smile—
a structure of knowingness. – {from} Yellow Flowers
////////////////////
Gillian Prew
The world looks on through a lens/ notices
her grief/ notices she has ribbons for teeth. – {from} Still Life/Whale
/////////////////////
Billy Burgos
…And what obviousness
the darkness is, or the sound it makes – {from} Our Hondas and Heartbreak
//////////////////////
Ion Corcos
…What if I told you that I was a bird,
a calf, a gust of wind? – {from} Walnut Tree
///////////////////////
Corey Mesler
I will place the stones
along the path
you travel. – {from} The tug of sleep
kingsoftrain 