Find and share the perfect poems.
I found your letter
in the pocket
of a borrowed goat.
It showed me
the way—
small as an eye.
One mountain tried
to taste another,
then spit it out.
Your letter called
all the other letters
“friends.”
You too were
my friend,
soft as a melting
or melted nail.
Dear little cage,
dark plum.
Originally published in The Year of Yellow Butterflies (Hanging Loose Press, 2015). Reprinted with permission of the author.
The book is made of glass and I look through it and see more books. Many glass books. Is someone speaking? A muffled voice is telling me to make soup which I think means I am loved. What other kind of cup fills itself? Can there be a cup of cup? A cup of itself? Outside a black squirrel has wiggled to the end of a very skinny branch. When the squirrel breathes the whole tree shakes, as if the squirrel were the soul of the tree. Have you ever felt like such a tree? Not sayin’ I have.
Everyone I ever loved is standing on a platform with a gun. In the cartoon version, a flag pops with the word ‘bang.’ In the soap opera version, my face turns the color of merlot. In the haiku version, metal gleams in the narrow shadow. In the Republican version, two guns wrap themselves in a single flag. In the Langpo version. idolatry yips yaps paradigm the.
A woman builds a house out of birds’ cries and cries
all the time within it. The man she had wanted says,
“I am looking for a woman who is crying, but can’t
tell if anyone is crying inside that house’s outer
crying.” So she builds another house; this time, tears
for bricks, and cries as loud as she can within it.
Still he can’t hear her because the house’s
rectangular tears are too dazzlingly beautiful
to hear within. At this point, they both should be
laughing. The ceiling is neither of their mouths,