Jennifer Acker's Blog, page 126
October 29, 2018
Ode to the First Boy Who Made Me Feel It
DOROTHY CHAN
"...I'll put maple syrup on my breasts… if you’ll decorate / other parts with cream, that rush rush rush, taking me back / to an Orlando vacation: eleven, when I encounter the first boy / who makes me feel it, the way this nineteen-something-ride/ operator… looks at me as my parents and I / get out of the boat ride…”
"...I'll put maple syrup on my breasts… if you’ll decorate / other parts with cream, that rush rush rush, taking me back / to an Orlando vacation: eleven, when I encounter the first boy / who makes me feel it, the way this nineteen-something-ride/ operator… looks at me as my parents and I / get out of the boat ride…”
Three
CHRISTIAN IBARRA
Two hours ago the situation was different, the scenes distinct. Carmen—the oldest of them—was in her house, in the back room, inside the shower, keeping still while the water fell around her. The cold gave her goosebumps, which she tried to avoid looking at. At her age, seeing her body made her feel weak.
Two hours ago the situation was different, the scenes distinct. Carmen—the oldest of them—was in her house, in the back room, inside the shower, keeping still while the water fell around her. The cold gave her goosebumps, which she tried to avoid looking at. At her age, seeing her body made her feel weak.
On Negative Capability
JOHN MURILLO
Whitewalls Mudflaps/ a dark dirt road Headlights/ killed and so the world gone/ black but for the two blunts/ lit illuminating Jojo’s fake gold/ grin One girl each screaming/ from the backseat we raced/ the red moon rawdogged
the stars
Whitewalls Mudflaps/ a dark dirt road Headlights/ killed and so the world gone/ black but for the two blunts/ lit illuminating Jojo’s fake gold/ grin One girl each screaming/ from the backseat we raced/ the red moon rawdogged
the stars
Overlook Kentucky
RACHEL DANIELLE PETERSON
"Mother, can we distil the pink threads, fabric… / the odor of Bud Light, fills the door / she walks through, dust, Mamma. Dust is all we is... / the knock leads inta porch, cement on bare feet, / only a stuffed Bambi knows lips open in prayer / ta a vengeful gawd while another… sun spills… / towards… dawn.”
"Mother, can we distil the pink threads, fabric… / the odor of Bud Light, fills the door / she walks through, dust, Mamma. Dust is all we is... / the knock leads inta porch, cement on bare feet, / only a stuffed Bambi knows lips open in prayer / ta a vengeful gawd while another… sun spills… / towards… dawn.”
We Used to Call it Puerto Rican Rain
WILLIE PERDOMO
The rain had just finished saying, This block is mine. / The kind of rain where you could sleep through two breakthroughs and still have enough left to belly sing in the ambrosial hour. / Blood pellets in the dusk & dashes of hail were perfect for finding new stashes; that is to say, visitations were never announced. / A broken umbrella handle posed a question by the day care center.
The rain had just finished saying, This block is mine. / The kind of rain where you could sleep through two breakthroughs and still have enough left to belly sing in the ambrosial hour. / Blood pellets in the dusk & dashes of hail were perfect for finding new stashes; that is to say, visitations were never announced. / A broken umbrella handle posed a question by the day care center.
The Yoke’s On Us
CHRISTOPHER SPAIDE
We broke the law and into smiles./ We sowed dissent and daffodils./ We wiped our tears and private files./ We stacked the deck and dollar bills.
We shot the shit then shot the sheriffs.
Exchanged vows and currencies.
We broke the law and into smiles./ We sowed dissent and daffodils./ We wiped our tears and private files./ We stacked the deck and dollar bills.
We shot the shit then shot the sheriffs.
Exchanged vows and currencies.
The Burrow
TERE DÁVILA
Something had caught their attention as they searched for pebbles and twigs. They crouched amid the soggy storm debris, then sprang up, kittenlike, uncombed curls against the gray sky, chattering and unaware of my presence.
Something had caught their attention as they searched for pebbles and twigs. They crouched amid the soggy storm debris, then sprang up, kittenlike, uncombed curls against the gray sky, chattering and unaware of my presence.
October 26, 2018
October 2018 Poetry Feature
ABBAS SHEIKHI
We were in a boat
we were afraid of the darkness
the waves sent us to the sky
and the sky cried for us
women were crying
and men were praying
I prayed but didn’t cry
because of my small daughter...
We were in a boat
we were afraid of the darkness
the waves sent us to the sky
and the sky cried for us
women were crying
and men were praying
I prayed but didn’t cry
because of my small daughter...
October 25, 2018
Ask a Local: Snigdha Poonam, Delhi, India
SNIGDHA POONAM
When the trees flower, Delhi is bathed in the brightest of colors: yellow, green, purple, crimson. Most people I know in Delhi have a favorite type of tree. Mine is Amaltas.
When the trees flower, Delhi is bathed in the brightest of colors: yellow, green, purple, crimson. Most people I know in Delhi have a favorite type of tree. Mine is Amaltas.
October 24, 2018
It Was a Yellow-Billed Cuckoo
JOANNA BRICHETTO
And then I hear something new. A repeated call like a hoot, but not the dove, and not any owl I know.
And then I hear something new. A repeated call like a hoot, but not the dove, and not any owl I know.
