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The New World


ISSUE:  Fall 2016

 

Do I have to talk about fear? 
So much has already been said 
about hidden spiders, compass needles
lodged in the soft of an eye. 

The soul is a thirsty 
antelope nervously lapping up 
water from a pool 
in the hunter’s backyard. 

Or so I’ve been told. Sometimes 
when I listen to old Persian music 
I get so sad I can actually smell rose water. 
This is a Real Thing That Happens.

If home is the question, 
the honest answers must all be elegant
forgeries. Must be sprinkled 
with sumac. Droughts occur 

constantly under God’s holy watch. 
His response? He yawns 
immortally on his throne,
fans himself with an elephant ear.  

The lion was so exhausted and numb
that a person might’ve thought 
they could 
kiss it

The calculus of desperation yields 
everything in miniature. I fell in love 
with the volume of an earlobe 
rotated around the axis of a spine. 

My dear, 
how did you 
end up 
like this?

Withhold the accident. Withhold 
the tiny aches. Withhold the body’s
capacity for desiccation, for ineffable 
grief. There are no new worlds left to dream.

There is no new world.

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