Joanna Klink, from The Nightfields
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Joanna Klink, from The Nightfields

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â NATASHA TRETHEWEY, âMyth.â
Mary Oliver, âTo Be Human Is to Sing Your Own Song.â Blue Horses
[ID: The aforementioned poem in its entirety. It reads:
âEverything I can think of that my parents / thought or did I donât think and I donât do. / I opened windows, they shut them. I pulled / open the curtains, they shut them. If you / get my drift. Of course there were some / similaritiesâthey wanted to be happy and / they werenât. I wanted to be Shelley and I / wasnât. I donât mean I didnât have to avoid / imitation, the gloom was pretty heavy. But / then, for me, there was the forest, where / they didnât exist. And the fields. Where I / learned about birds and other sweet tidbits / of existence. The song sparrow, for example.
âIn the song sparrowâs nest the nestlings, / those who would sing eventually, must listen / carefully to the father bird as he sings / and make their own song in imitation of his. / I donât know if any other bird does this (in / natureâs way has to do this). But I know a / child doesnât have to. Doesnât have to. / Doesnât have to. And I didnât.â
End of description.]
Museum of the Thing by Karen Solie Issue no. 210 (Fall 2014)
Sad storm of objects becoming things, the objective correlative, tired of me as I am of it. I embody everything it hates about itself. People donât stand in for each other
the way things do. Someone for whom Wednesday means groceries might animate Wednesday with, among other realities, the inability to possess it,
as one might a derelict potato-chip factory co-opted to ventriloquize oneâs state of mind. Itâs impossible to really know what a trip to the Real Canadian Superstore
suggests to someone else. Even animals, notoriously difficult to work with, whose very mention in this context invites derision, illuminate a failure of perception
no less uninformative for being true. It does not satisfy. Dear being, how might I responsibly interpret your incomprehensible behavior? Where am I in it?
The imagination, whole yet incomplete, feels its edges. Gestures from its windows as if into a city whose language no one speaks. A dilemma unresolvable, but mutual.
The Spark, by Brenda Hillman
Once you were immortal in the flame. You were not the fire but you were in the fire;â
nothing moved except the way it was already moving; nothing spoke except the voice in back of time;â
and when you became your life, there were those who couldn't, those who tried to love you and failed and some who had loved you in the beginning with the first sexual energy of the world.
Start the memory, bright one, you who let your life be invented though not being invented had been more available
and remember those who lit the abyss. The boys in science fair. You were probably hall monitor at that time weren't you, and you admired them; on their generator, the spark bounced back and forth like baby lighting and you saw them run their fingertips through its danger, two promising loops stuck up to provide a home for the sexual light which was always loose when it wasn't broken, free joy that didn't go anywhere but moved between the wires like a piece of living, in advanceâ
then later: how much were you supposed to share? The boys sat in front of your house at dusk, the boys who still had parents. Sometimes they held Marlboros out the car windows and even if they didn't, sparks fell from their hands. Showers of sparks between nineteen sixty eight and
hands were sleek with asking sleek with asking;â
they had those long intermural after the library type fingers they would later put in you, âah.
When? well, when they had talked you into having a body they could ask into the depths of
and they rose to meet you against and ignorance that made you perfect and you rose to meet them like a waitress of fireâ
because: didn't the spark shine best in the bodies under the mild shooting stars on the back-and-forth blanket from the fathers' carsâ they lay down with you, in you, and when did you start missing them. As Sacramento missed its yellow dust in 1852. When did you start missing those who invented your body with their sparksâ
they didn't mind being plural. They put their summer stars inside you,
how nice to have. And then: the pretty soon. Pretty soon you were a body, space, warm flesh warm (this) (this) under me the summer meteors that fell like lower case i's above the cave of granite where the white owl slept
without because or why what first evening of the world. The sparks of your bodies joined the loud sparks of the skyâ
And you carried it, little flame. Into almost famous cities, between the ringing of shallow bells, city squares pretty much like some of that blue tile work, walking the bridge of sighs till you wound the weak
spark on quilted bedspreads in small villages, crops starting up outside as if the torn lace curtains with the not-mattering stitching coming all 'undone' in the middle
of paisley clean flowers stood for a decade. You barely burned then;
sex grows rather dim sometimes doesn't it but comes back. Yourself half-gone into those rooms, yourself, a stranger.
You who happened only once: remember yourself as you are;
when Fridays he comes to you in the revolving dusk, his full self lighting candles, a little smoke he sings, the fire you already own so you can stop not letting him;
all love is representative of the beginning of time. When you are loved, the darkness carries you. When you are loved, you are goldenâ

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How to Watch Your Brother Die | Michael Lassell
For Carl Morse When the call comes, be calm. Say to your wife, âMy brother is dying. I have to fly to California.â try not to be shocked that he already looks like a cadaver. Say to the young man sitting by your brotherâs side, âIâm his brother.â Try not to be shocked when the young man says, âIâm his lover. Thanks for coming.â Listen to the doctor with a steel face on. Sign the necessary forms. Tell the doctor you will take care of everything. Wonder why doctors are so remote. Watch the loverâs eyes as they stare into your brotherâs eyes as they stare into space. Wonder what they see there. Remember the time he was jealous and opened your eyebrow with a sharp stick. Forgive him out loud even if he canât understand you. Realize the scar will be all thatâs left of him. Over coffee in the hospital cafeteria say to the lover, âYouâre an extremely good-looking young man.â Hear him say, âI never thought I was good enough looking to deserve your brother.â Watch the tears well up in his eyes. Say, âIâm sorry. I donât know what it means to be the lover of another man.â Hear him say, âIts just like a wife, only the commitment is deeper because the odds against you are so much greater.â Say nothing, but take his hand like a brotherâs. Drive to Mexico for unproven drugs that might help him live longer. Explain what they are to the border guard. Fill with rage when he informs you, âYou canât bring those across.â Begin to grow loud. Feel the loverâs hand on your arm restraining you. See in the guardâs eye how much a man can hate another man. Say to the lover, âHow can you stand it?â Hear him say, âYou get used to it.â Think of one of your children getting used to another manâs hatred. Call your wife on the telephone. Tell her, âHe hasnât much time. Iâll be home soon.â Before you hang up say, âHow could anyoneâs commitment be deeper than a husband and a wife?â Hear her say, âPlease. I donât want to know all the details.â When he slips into an irrevocable coma, hold his lover in your arms while he sobs, no longer strong. Wonder how much longer you will be able to be strong. Feel how it feels to hold a man in your arms whose arms are used to holding men. Offer God anything to bring your brother back. Know you have nothing God could possible want. Curse God, but do not abandon Him. Stare at the face of the funeral director when he tells you he will not embalm the body for fear of contamination. Let him see in your eyes how much a man can hate another man. Stand beside a casket covered in flowers, white flowers. Say, âthank you for coming,â to each of seven hundred men who file past in tears, some of them holding hands. Know that your brotherâs life was not what you imagined. Overhear two mourners say, âI wonder whoâll be next?â and âI donât care anymore, as long as it isnât you.â Arrange to take an early flight home. His lover will drive you to the airport. When your flight is announced say, awkwardly, âIf I can do anything, please let me know.â Do not flinch when he says, âForgive yourself for not wanting to know him after he told you. He did.â Stop and let it soak in. Say, âHe forgave me, or he knew himself?â âBoth,â the lover will say, not knowing what else to do. Hold him like a brother while he kisses you on the cheek. Think that you havenât been kissed by a man since your father died. Think, âThis is no moment to be strong.â Fly first class and drink Scotch. Stroke your split eyebrow with a finger and think of your brother alive. Smile at the memory and think how your children will feel in your arms warm and friendly and without challenge.
Dalton Day, from Flood-Letting
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âA full-service organizationâ by Bob Hicok I robbed a bank. Didnât mean to. Iâd deposited a check when the woman asked, Is there anything else? She had a great smile. It reminded me of a waxing moon. I didnât want her to be a moon in vain, so I said, Iâll take all the money in your drawer. She said, Of course. Then she said a funny thing. Her head was down, she was looking at a stack of bills in her hand, when she said, How would you like that? Meaning tens or twenties. Hundreds or quarters. And as soon as she said this, she stopped, dropped her hands, smiled, looked at me, shook her head and said, Duh. And something opened between us. A sense of life as renewable and surprising, full of little errors that make us notice we need and can give help. Thereâs only one way to want everything, she knew that and was admitting her mistake. So I pointed out to her that I didnât have a gun. She pointed out to me that money is a knife we plunge into each other over and over for no good reason. If Iâd have had a cord of wood or even a few logs, Iâd have built a fire right there and talked to her well into the night, but there was no tree in sight. At the end, having handed me the money, once more she asked, Is there anything else? Yes, I said. Iâd like to deposit this. Checking or savings, she asked. Given how far weâd come together, I admitted Iâve never known how to answer that question, if itâs better to live for the moment or look forward to a better time. Thatâs why Iâm here, she said, taking out a pencil and paper and dividing the paper into two columns, one labeled The Sky Is Falling, the other, So Am I. Boulevard Spring 2017
i canât remember the name of my favorite poem but it has this quote in it thatâs like âif you pretend to love enough people you will never go hungryâ and its about where this person was when Elliott smith died and at the end of it he opens up a fortune cookie and it says something bad and he doesnât tell anyone about it for a whole year
âOde to Elliot Smith, Ending in the First Snow Snowfall of 2003â The Crown Ainât Worth Much by Hanif Willis-Abdurraqib

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It is the twelfth day The hero will not take food He refuses wine sleep womenÂ
How can the body not spoil? Dragged by chariot gashed  smearedÂ
in mud and horse droppings Mutilate Mutilate cries the heroâs heartÂ
as he lashes the horses around and around the tombÂ
If he can just make his mark on this corpse whoseÂ
beauty freshens with each lunge as though bathed
in balm Even the gods in gentle feast are shocked: Is there no
shame ? The hero has no other life He has taken
to heart a body whose face vaulting through gravel and bloodÂ
blends strangely with the features of that otherÂ
one: the Beloved For this is love: rigorÂ
mortis in the mortal grip and never to letÂ
go Achilles hoards and defiles the dead So what if heavenÂ
and earth reverberate release So what if OlympianÂ
messages shoot through cloudbanks sea chambers etherÂ
So what if everything echoes the Father let go let go This is AncientÂ
Poetry Itâs supposed to repeat The living mangle the dead
after they mangle the living Itâs formulaic Thatâs how we love Itâs calledÂ
compulsion Poetry canât help itself And no one has everÂ
explained how light stabbed the hero how he saw
in dawn salt mist his Motherâs face (she who Was before words sheÂ
who would lose him) Saw her but heard words  Let him letÂ
go Saw her and let his fingers loosen from thatÂ
suspended decay and quietly too quietlyÂ
turned away
âRosanna Warren, The Twelfth Day
this is not my favorite poem from Danezâs Smithâs âHomieâ but it is a hell of a thing
From âThe Sparkâ Brenda Hillman
Eternal Return II by Erika Meitner
Because in this kingdom of unlikely wonders we never saw it with our eyesânot the
smaller signs, or the larger erasures. All came scattershot, like the wind
rushing headlong through torn screens carrying the laughter of strangers.
Until extinction stops being forever, Iâll pitch everything I have against death:
muscle memory, tenacity, my whorls & spires, my lips. When we do the hard work of
extricating ourselves from these systems. When they suture us back together
to create something more vaguely eternal, more hope than terror, like Miamiâs Golden
Mammoth in a glass vitrine (coffin?) at the Faena: 24-karat mythological beast
interred at the head of the dwindling beach, the menacing sea. Tell me weâll be all right.
When the sun comes up thereâs our desire (the world / its terroir / the taste of your skin)
illuminated like the calf âMoses burned, then ground to smithereens. He scattered
those ashes on the water, forced the people to drink. Remember: after each day comes night.
There will be a time when the earth stops answering; pray for an aperture.
kaveh akbar, from calling a wolf a wolf

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warm days in january by donald revell
It has never been so easy to cry openly or to acknowledge children. Never before could I walk directly to the center of an island city feeling the automatism of millions drawing one pious breath, shouldering the sunset, holding it up in the oily tree-line a while longer. Years ago, I was never sad enough and nothing but a hotel that I could tear to pieces and reconstruct inside a shoebox felt like home. My parents died. Their miserable possessions washed up in other hotels, dioramas of the febrile romantic.
I take my first lover, already gray at her temples and more reticent than shy, more tacit than admiring, to the bus stop by the Jewish Museum. We wait in the dark a long time. She does not kiss me. She hurries up out of the oily street onto the humming, fluorescent podium of the last bus where I see her a last time, not waving to me, not lovable, erect in the freedom we traduced years ago in our first kiss.
Never deny the power of withdrawal. Never doubt that thought and time make things small. Never refuse the easy exit line or prescribed uncomprehending gesture. At childhoodâs end, none can tell happiness from buoyancy. None of it made any differenceâ the patricides, the hotels ill-constructed, the inconstant starlight of drugs and rebellion. We are no more complicated than our great-grandparents who dreaded the hotel life. Like them, we seek the refuge of warm days in January, a piety whose compulsion is to survive according to explicit laws no young woman adores or young man follows with darling hunger.
Great Things Have Happened
by Alden Nowlan
We were talking about the great things that have happened in our lifetimes; and I said, âOh, I suppose the moon landing was the greatest thing that has happened in my time.â But, of course, we were all lying. The truth is the moon landing didnât mean one-tenth as much to me as one night in 1963 when we lived in a three-room flat in what once had been the mansion of some Victorian merchant prince (our kitchen had been a clothes closet, Iâm sure), on a street where by now nobody lived who could afford to live anywhere else. That night, the three of us, Claudine, Johnnie and me, woke up at half-past four in the morning and ate cinnamon toast together.
âIs that all?â I hear somebody ask.
Oh, but we were silly with sleepiness and, under our windows, the street-cleaners were working their machines and conversing in Italian, and everything was strange without being threatening, even the tea-kettle whistled differently than in the daytime: it was like the feeling you get sometimes in a country youâve never visited before, when the bread doesnât taste quite the same, the butter is a small adventure, and they put paprika on the table instead of pepper, except that there was nobody in this country except the three of us, half-tipsy with the wonder of being alive, and wholly enveloped in love.