Tinderbox poetry journal
i’m beginning to think childhood is the only memory we journey through until we learn to call it home. & for two years, i searched for his voice, & when i finally found it, it was a moon arcing at night, between the rough maps of the stars. sometimes i worry i am not looking for joy, that i am looking for my only brother lost in the war. i have been taught a piano with flames can cure a snakebite, can stop the bleeding- so i wage love & a wild heliotrope.
#Tinderbox poetry journal full
my mouth is full of brown spiders- if i try hard enough, i can gather history, like nouns into my mouth: she lived happily as a peasant, i mean my grandmother, buried in a mass-graveyard, somewhere, in that waterlogged village. i have a father’s broken heart: i don’t know what i mean, but i mean it.
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which vein of memory is the most useful to slice into- so i can sob about the killing fields & how my chest heaves- the photograph of my lover’s head, a bowling ball that rolls on the floor. once i live in a country whose mineral is the empire’s sin. like ash, the distinction between victim & executioner becomes blurred. sun kissed each morning & i remember how a war is enough to change your god.
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look, look again: a bite, a burn, an aperture. note: there has been some speculation about the state of our health- whether the verb through which grief has been translated from a past still visits us in our dreams.
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today no one is shooting & i am closest to home i’ve been in a long time. I write “i pledge no allegiance’’ in my poems but the memories keep coming late in this summer that has no age.