Someone must’ve gone fetched him out, towed the drowned, wing-wrecked bird through a slick of his own feathery want, though, more likely, he passed out from knowing, and the falling distance made the surface turn hard to his body. It must’ve mattered to his father, who, winged himself, had to watch fishermen circle his son, like figures in a painting, pondering as if there were meaning in water. Is this any way to treat the ones who flee and wash ashore, prodding their bodies with toe, stick, a disbelieving finger? This morning, walking along the road, I found a hummingbird against the curb, marveled at the glasswork of its stillness, how the light was falling too, so I could see shifting green and blue, the tiny cage, the dark needle of its bill, the dark eyes the ants will carry away. I can’t say if it died from wanting too much or from finding what it wanted too much. Surely, Icarus had the heart of a hummingbird. If they revived him, would he have risen back into the sky, damaged wiser, or, bratty, simply blamed his crap wings? I nudged the bird with my shoe, not expecting, but half wishing, a startling burst through our myth-brightened world. But the boy who ODed in a Porta-Potty, was no bird at all. When his father found him, his sun-jonesing heart large from hovering, his friends—junk-caked, booze-skanked themselves—turned away, puked in a ditch, praying he’d break the surface of his misery. Even outside the funeral home, dark coats blocks long, dragging in suits they last wore at graduation, for some sliver of rachis and vane jutting out where wings might be, they do not want to die, they only want to feel less, less this. The way we, too, standing in a line of pity and scorn, curse all this away, we who love those who love the air, the sudden lift and veer.
Copyright © 2017 James Hoch. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Kenyon Review, November/December 2017
Each night, the suffer- Gleamed stars above Texas crush down & I do Not know how to say No thank you, please To the jawing ghosts That show up to gnaw Furrows in my chest. The wind whispers Hotly. Nightjars Polish the darkness Free of moths. I refuse to let go Of my paranoia Because it assures Me that I am alive, Living the dream, A limited edition One-life-in a life- Time offer of bones That glow in the dark. Morning comes metallic Over the lakes of blood I bucket by bucket splash Out of the window. Wiping Sweat from my brow I am like Baby, Baby, how Lovely is all this glitter?
Copyright © 2017 Alex Lemon. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Kenyon Review, November/December 2017
What I need from this
Slap & tickle is a full
Suckle of lies. Glue
My lips together with
Blow flies. I am not
Ashamed at how hot
My cravings swing—
Cinder blocks crashed
Through car windows
& a joyous Wuuuu-Wuuuuu
Shouted at the dark
Puckering stars. I love
My calamity—say I am
The prettiest thing
You have ever seen
When the fire starts.
Copyright © 2017 Alex Lemon. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Kenyon Review, November/December 2017
Eppur si muove The iris wavers as the fox trots by, mornings in paradise, or what pretends by any other name to smell of meat. What were we then that we did not become? The water touched the image of the beast; old factories of iron muted the plain. They were of no consequence, those sun-dark days before the word fell hard upon the ear. The Indian corn, I mean the poppy fields, carpets of color sown and yet not sown, ideas that rose to metal and to brick. That too was passion. Naked, in need of need, we had heard of passion. We knew ourselves that first first morning when we woke, and died.
Copyright © 2017 William Logan. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Kenyon Review, November/December 2017
this being unnoticed. Sitting like this next to the stone lamb outside the Cathedral. My lost soul, which prefers the stone lamb to the living God. Prefers these deep shadows to the summer day. The way he took me all those years ago, shattered me so that fifty-seven years later, I might sit next to the smoothness of this stone lamb, know the stone joy of being unnoticed. People go in the Cathedral all day long, visiting their God on their knees. That man who betrayed me when I was a boy, first held me up to a tree so I would know what smell lemon blossoms have.
Copyright © 2017 Jim Moore. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Kenyon Review, November/December 2017
All modesty is false modesty when it comes to poems, or to the silence in which poems begin before they are words, when they are still daisies at the foot of the dead Christ in an anonymous painting, 13th century. Not to know how to live is one thing, and nothing to be ashamed of. But not to know how to sit in front of those daisies with tears in my eyes: what a waste that would be.
Copyright © 2017 Jim Moore. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Kenyon Review, November/December 2017
If the neighbor’s roof is a shamble of broken tiles, so be it.
If those tiles sit there for weeks. If no one does a thing about them.
If the sky is gray day after day and then snow falls and the tiles turn into
fragments of a broken alphabet traced in snow, clinging.
Darkness, then dawn.
If beauty, as hoped for; if death as promised.
There is no reason not to say it: the woman with her head bent, reading, is
beautiful.
The train rocks beneath her, but she mostly sits in stillness.
A slight trembling of the page betrays the truth of things.
Meanwhile, a window above her bent head. A river and a bridge, a sky
darkening just beyond the window.
The bridge and the sky, the slight blue of a river: a world beautiful beyond
our understanding.
No reason not to say it: the woman will look up from her book, from the calm
page, from the story not her own.
In due course will suffer before she dies.
The small blue relief of the river is a darkening song without end.
Copyright © 2017 Jim Moore. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Kenyon Review, November/December 2017
1
I drove all the way to Cape Disappointment but didn’t
have the energy to get out of the car. Rental. Blue Ford
Focus. I had to stop in a semipublic place to pee
on the ground. Just squatted there on the roadside.
I don’t know what’s up with my bladder. I pee and then
I have to pee and pee again. Instead of sightseeing
I climbed into the back seat of the car and took a nap.
I’m a little like Frank O’Hara without the handsome
nose and penis and the New York School and Larry
Rivers. Paid for a day pass at Cape Disappointment
thinking hard about that long drop from the lighthouse
to the sea. Thought about going into the Ocean
Medical Center for a check-up but how do I explain
this restless search for beauty or relief?
2
No need to sparkle, Virginia Woolf wrote in “A Room
of One’s Own,” oh, would that it were true, I loved the kids
who didn’t, June, can’t remember her last name, tilt of her
head like an off-brand flower on the wane, her little rotten
teeth the color of pencil lead, house dresses even in 4th grade,
and that boy Danny Davis, gray house, horse, eyes, clothes,
fingertips and prints, freckles not copper-colored but like metal
shavings you could clean up with a magnet. Now Mrs. LaPointe
was a dug-up bone but Miss Edge sparkled, she taught the half-
and-half class, 3rd and 4th grades cut down the middle
of the room like sheet cake, she wore a lavender chiffon dress
with a gauzy cape to school, aquamarine eye shadow, Sweetie,
she whispered to me, leaning down, breath a perfume, your
daddy’s dead, tears stuck to her cheeks like leeches or jewels.
3
I aborted two daughters, how do I know they were girls,
a mother knows, at least one daughter, maybe one
daughter and a son, will it hurt I asked the pre-abortion
lady and she said, her eyes were so level, I haven’t been
stupid enough to need to find out, cruel but she was right,
I was and am stupid, please no politics, I’ve never gotten
over it, no I don’t regret it, two girls with a stupid penniless
mother and a drug-addict father, I don’t think so, I shot
a rabbit once for food, I am not pristine, I am not good,
I am in no way Jesus, I am in no way even the bad Mary
let alone the good, though I have held my living son
in the pietà pose, I didn’t know at the time I was doing it
but now that I look back, he’d overdosed and nearly died,
my heart, he said, his lips blue, don’t worry, I’ve paid.
4
To return from Paradise I guess they call that
resurrection. Don’t remember the black cherries’
gleam, bay shine, mountain’s sheen, blissful
appalling loneliness. Messy foam at sea’s edge,
slurry they call it, where love and death meld
into slop, and unaccustomed birds. Forget all
the way back to where you were before you were
born. When Dyl was a toddler, still finger-sucking,
he said he remembered the sound of my blood
whooshing past him in utero, maybe the first of many
lies, this one with an adorable speech impediment.
I always return, it’s my nature, like the man who
couldn’t stop liberating the crayfish even though
it pinched him hard, that song, that Grand Ole Opry.
5
The best is when you respond only to the absolute present
tense, the rain, the rain, rain, rain, and wind, an iridescent
cloud, another shooting, this time in a shopping mall
in Germany, so this is why people want other people to put
their arms around them, I will walk to the bay where there is
a kind of peace, even emptiness, the barn swallows’ sharp
flight and cry, who now has the luxury of emptiness or peace,
the beauty of thunder in a place where there is rarely thunder,
the mind like a jackrabbit bounding, bounding, my wet hair
against my neck, grandfather’s barber shop, the line-up
of hair tonics by color like a spectrum, the pool table removed
to make a room for great-grandma to live out her years, my
father cutting a semicircle in her kitchen table so it would fit
around the stove pipe, rain, rain, fascism in America is loud.
6
Poetry, the only father, landscape, moon, food, the bowl
of clam chowder in Nahcotta, was I happy, mountains
of oyster shells gleaming silver, poetry, the only gold,
or is it, my breasts, feet, my hands, index finger,
fingernail, hangnail, paper cut, what is divine, I drove
to the sea, wandered aimlessly, I stared at my tree, I said
in my mind there’s my tree, there’s my tree I said in my mind,
I remember myself before words, thrilled at my parents’
touch, opened milkweed with no agenda, blew the fluff,
no reaching for comparison, to be free of signification,
wriggle out of the figurative itchy sweater, body, breasts,
vulva, little cave of the uterus, clit, need, touch, come, I came
before I knew what coming was, iambic pentameter, did I
feel it, does language eclipse feeling, does it eclipse the eclipse
Copyright © 2017 Diane Seuss. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Kenyon Review, November/December 2017
after Alice Oswald Take away my engine and I shall engineless go to find you. Take away my bees and I will flowerless walk the vectors of sweet nothings until I’m face to face with Monsanto. In my doomed town where small mechanic skills make the evenings strung out and shrill with compressors and vapors, I listen for crows and wrens to overdub our nation’s ills which are forgetting and further forgetting so I don’t recognize my hand, the length of rope, the knot, the limb I throw it over, the aid and abetting of the body, the shadow spans from Senegal to my doomed town where Mrs. White cuts off a limb that drops its intractable leaves in menacing random and illegal patterns on her lawn. The proposition is to each cut off a limb, a sacrifice to prevent destructions more terrible in the future as did the Sioux. Because I lack imagination somebody, a Christ, a boy in custody, dies each evening. Three days wait and I forget the undertaking, the uprising, that way of life with redemption. I forget the lies modified by art. I forget the ongoing story of love tending toward catastrophe, the oblique, gaped, murderous corridos ending in the underworld and unknowing.
Copyright © 2017 Bruce Smith. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Kenyon Review, November/December 2017
Beheadings, slaughter of the innocents, suffering and sorrow say all the stabbed, ecstatic art of the museums and more of the same says the news, the glowing, after glowing now what, but also in the crowded galleries babies held by mothers looking at babies being artfully held in the celestial rain, the fat buttery ones, part putto, part lard who appear ready to slip from mother’s arms out of the frame into smoke and storm, the non-art part of the world, that disobedient, expensive part like a furious sea you paid to cross in an inflatable plastic raft, a child’s toy in a bath it looks like from America where we have no fate we can’t make. Fate is guns and money swamping the stars. Fate is the bewitched mixture of fuel with sea water that incinerates the self. Fate is the decree of childhood evaporating into unauthorized space where the I/you is so much questioning and answering non-art. In art I see the gold leaf, the gashes, the beautiful throats and hear the trauma arias of martyrdom that are the same in non-art deserts and cities. There are two schools: one that sings the sheen and hues, the necessary pigments and frankincense while the world dries and the other voice like water that seeks to saturate, erode, and boil. It can’t be handled. It can’t be marble. It wants to pool and rise and rain and soak the root systems. It ruins everything you have ever saved.
Copyright © 2017 Bruce Smith. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Kenyon Review, November/December 2017
I saw the body of the jack fruit fall. I saw the body of the hero fall, his armor clanging on his body. Then the juice and sutras of the little spell of emptiness or the greater discourse of seed and ovary. I saw the place ransacked to find a substitute for the succulents—the lychee, the peach, the flower infolded in the fig—that give up their season, their nation, [mango, American pumpkin] the famous fated beauty/terror rift before the swoon of the future. I saw that luscious rot. I saw first thieves then police toss that place. I loved that part. This is the farewell, the flailing without the salt. This is the brood in place of a bowl of fruit, the fret in place of a hero’s rage in his tent before he remembers to sleep, eat, regret. I saw how the light scratches into all the surfaces, how the air agitates. Then the virtuoso work of the one-celled begins to mortify and multiply the world, as if it were doing nothing, so much done by doing nothing. I live in a sorrow culture, a pleasure culture, a culture frothy with grievance, yeasty with nostalgia. I live in a pre-war, post-war culture where what is written is pulped and vectored like a virus. Ashen light, clouds of sulfuric acid, signatures of lightning: this could be the planet Venus where love is adored and scorned, life is sentimental, life is 400 dollars or more. It froths. It foams like a god in the ocean. On this planet I saw flights of sparrows and hooded crows. There’s gratuitous beauty, unwarranted, immoderate beauty as an agent to oblivion. This blue, this curvature, this Rome— a further way to forgo. Because no one else will, reader, remember the things spirited away. Remember those hustling, those surrendered, those breathing then not. The spectacle makes us forget. I forgot the shape and color of the cup and the tear-gas canister. I forgot about the occupation and the middle passage when I saw the sea’s glint and green muscly swells. Beholding is a kind of blindness. History smells as the body becomes a bubbling godhead. What separates the curds and whey? What allows me to enter, through the small door, this faltering conversation?
Copyright © 2017 Bruce Smith. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Kenyon Review, November/December 2017
I walked in the romantic garden and I walked in the garden of ruin. I walked in the green-skinned, black-skinned garden of Osiris who was ripped to pieces and reformed and adored. I walked in that wet, incestuous plot. Am I the only one who reads for innocence? I walked in the garden of Amadou Diallo whose shadow was punctured by unnumbered shafts of light leading from West Africa to America where wallets are guns. The chirp you heard in the garden as of two black holes merging is what we called the soul. And when we cup our hands to drink at his fountain we make the shape of his skull. Am I the only one who reads for thirst? I walked in the gardens of Houston where anole lizards took their colors at the borders between terror and wonder, dread and leafy glade, between silence and Sinatra. I walked in Pope’s garden in Twickenham that rhymed wilderness and picturesque, walled in and out the stunted self. In the garden of ruin new growth from the palms I read as artful, neutral. In the romantic garden the fascists sing I love you, I love you not. Statues in the gardens are wrapped in Mylar blankets and blue plastic tarps like refugees. I read them for reflection. I read for nation. I read for color and form. In the orangery of Guantanamo, in the grapevine of Babylon, I’m lost. I went there for the buzz, the fiction of silence and a better self. Dressed sentimentally in a dynamite suit in the garden of dates and pomegranates, I read for patterns of the blast.
Copyright © 2017 Bruce Smith. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Kenyon Review, November/December 2017
Nobody knows how those so-called revolutionaries
who wanted year zero so bad,
turned into mosquitoes. I mean, mosquitoes right?
Because not butterflies or moths rolling
in the mass graves—we all know the moths are children
who didn’t make it past five. My theory is those creeps
sucked the blood of their victims to forget
what kinds of torture they did, with their bare hands
or with other kinds of hands, the kinds with teeth.
I’m not trying to scare you now. Just letting you know
if you scratch your arms like that a huge welt will appear
like a rash, will take months to fade (or forget as it goes),
and those mosquitoes will keep coming for you.
You heard it from me. Don’t scratch their real names.
Toothpaste over that bump won’t soothe you,
not on this one. I’ll tell you something personal: every time
I hear their real names, I scratch my skin. I scratch my own name
too. Mosquitoes. Call them mosquitoes. Like a nuisance.
Just that. I know, I know… it’s been years. The past
should be the past by now but not this kind.
You have to protect yourself because this kind keeps going
like that mosquito’s straw on your calf keeps sucking.
You didn’t see it, did you? This is when I tell you: Don’t move.
Slap.
Copyright © 2017 Monica Sok. Used with permission of the author. This poem originally appeared in Kenyon Review, November/December 2017
We must set this story straight. We must say there is another angle to this foreign particle lodged in my ribs like a small ivory tiger or a Chinese lamp, the oil coating my bones. Theseus, you know you didn't break me. I was the one who came to you with a magnifying glass, needing my Oxford credits for the University of Someone Wants Me: my gold-sealed social stigma. I made my own marks. & everyone should know it—I have an A+ in the humors of you. I was an Edison bulb in a child’s bedchamber, a Spanish fan flirting with fire, smoking as pity turned to shock at mediocre parties where conversations are weak with the ordinary. My outfit betrayed me—you wept right through my clinical gloves like a little boy with a bad heart & a mean streak. I monitored your ailments, but my logic was circular: What is man? What is man? What is this man doing here with me? No bright conclusion. I was bad at doctoring the truth. I was in it for myself. & the skull I carried in my hand in case anyone took record? Still on my fingers.
From Virgin (Milkweed Editions, 2018) by Analicia Sotelo. Reprinted with permission of the author and Milkweed Editions. Copyright © 2017 Analicia Sotelo. This poem originally appeared in Kenyon Review, November/December 2017.