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
map
in dream
what you can
of heaven
be the hurt
child
who fascinates
(birth) spook
thunder
with the soft
horse of male
privacy / my angels
are graves
in a country
of wind
alone in that no-name church of dream
scales of grief
and thrown back
fish
Corey Mesler has three poems at ~ isacoustic* ~
while covering my mouth with a bruise from the robot’s vision board, I wheel our son past a group of seven men arguing the age gap between the first and last immortal and remind myself to appreciate the comic timing of those who move freely from one diaper change to the next without putting a small toe to their lips and I forgive them their privacy and their resting arms and I forgive them for believing absence is a straight line…
the hand
is a thing
unfinished / the father
is a father
urinating / to feel / followed / it is all
so bare / a barber
is never
missing
when
to become
the star
above the bait
of your death
your son
comes tenderly
to the idea
of your kept
fish
and denies
himself
the spoils
of witness
to miss
hunger
as if hunger
were a sister
breaking
an invisible
bread
over the water
you sang
around
kingsoftrain 