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Reborn for exposure, my body’s been redesigned for uncensored
feeling: a sneeze or hiccup comes as a sheet of ice or a bed on fire.

Eyes inverted, the optic nerves reach like roots beyond me. I under-
stand the unseen scars of invisible knives—those rodents’ teeth,

those crows’ bills; natural insertions. The red of it is raw; the surface
glistens like sap gnawed out from trees—wounds that outshine even

the sun— these wet lights are my earthbound constellations. What is
left of me, my son walks next to on his way to school. He tells me he’s

learned, Where rain and babies come from; he says, It’s all the same,
really. Inside. Outside. He doesn’t notice any difference. He says,

Race ya, and we run into a storm of babies—falling. Life absorbs
quickly as water into earth and all is an unstaged show of growth.

We will die, Mom, he says, But like star-matter we’ll regenerate. Why
do you think that is? I ask him. So we can find the joy in it, he tells me.

Our story will happen again.

I mistook my father for a sewer rat once, his tail
dragging behind, plump and serpentine.

I followed the S’s onto our yellowed half-acre,
stopped at the sound of hens; the flocks in the

tallest branches, alive with a foliage of wings.

This is where she and I pushed our pants to our ankles
and peed, heard God’s voice roar—What the hell?

Or maybe that was my father—we didn’t turn around to see,
scrabbling through the thistle, as we were, on our knees.

1. My father hated him.
2. So his best friend, J.R., picked me up. Shook my daddy’s hand at the door.
    Promised me back by midnight.
3. Daddy thought I was obedient, a good girl.
4. It was hot, even for August.
5. J.R.’s parents were in Vegas, so he loaned us their bedroom.
    5a) They had a king-sized bed.
6. Diana Ross and the Supremes were singing Baby Love.
7. J.R. watched cartoons in the den.

Blue house dropped out of the sky
Sculpture of a giant fish jumping from snow

There’s a lake at the top of the mountain that’s all light

Golden angel sitting on a mailbox, legs crossed
So what if the wind of prophecy’s long blown away?

How many mountains will God hang over our heads
               before we can read the Torah of sky?

Lunar

By Molly Dickinson

Poem

Some tunnels are dark even though they are known. Like: how to choose my lunchtime apple. Like: which direction to run. And time is contracting in a way you didn’t warn me of. I’d be upset, but my body pieces are communing in ways you also didn’t warn of. I commune my eyes with my tongue, ears with my fingers. Flexing paths I did not know filled this body. One morning I find that my toes are conversing with my knees. They take me running in another direction and I find these things: goats that bleat, a worm filled fig, lupine-lady on her bicycle. Tonight, you told me to watch the red clay moon. So I’ve arranged my legs under my body and watch with my eyes closed. So under the wind my skin is shifting wisteria petals. So I soften against the ground, under your red clay moon. So I’m bare pieces: a gathering on my lawn, spread before this house. And I understand that I’m becoming reckless with my body in ways you’d scold me for. But I have changed the frequency of my ears and I can only hear the red clay moon.

Those days I walked around the water
with no good way to describe it, but knowing
that nothing majestic simply flows
Native tribes replenished the west coast with media
when the animals left for good
& then everything was a pet
or a pet’s story
I was hungover constantly
Aching & enthusiastic
& I felt that very specific loneliness
of having no good parka
in a city where practical knowledge
flowers toward you like a fruit
& asks you to participate in its gift

I’d never seen that mountain as clear as I saw it today
Picking a house to buy, then buying it
Stacks of linens showing off
Three candles on the bathroom floor

If I lived in Seattle I’d be in love right now

Maybe I need to drop something into the lake

Years of walk made the path go here and here and not there
The mattresses and tents beside it

What kind of a bird—
oh. A human bird

Radar

By Jessica Popeski

Poem

Pin straight prairie,
branch veins drumming
egg-smooth sky,
frost muscling into the earth.
Here, where pop is on special,
lettuce, diapers, extortionate.
Where little ones run,
barn cat wild,
bare gummed and bare footed,
sparrow legged,
elbow and knee joints jutting
like knots on a tree.
Where hunger balloons bellies,
carnation milk warms porridge,
on lucky days,
in homes where
mildew flowers wallpaper.

To have survived a life of gentle skirt-lifting is to never experience overexposure.

To retain a place in this world is to burnish split cherries until the red glosses with spit.

To people who gender the unborn what about the lotus is tagged with murder or crisp bows.

To engineer a clear sky some nations swallow clouds and suffer spiked rain.

To be tongued a floor has to retain its modesty beneath serrated lines.

To unease into a spread always keep the kneecaps ready for a feast at a moment’s notice.

To collect hate colonialize first a chorus of white-bellied weeping.

To colonialize is to imbue tenderness into that which has been extirpated by force.

To force enlargement onto the relation between girlhood & fortune

a whole generation must lose.

This here Wild West is
no reprieve, bearing all secret, no rule, fewest boundary
before transgression. A lark, his caw, makes good on the temperament:

A song whose words aren’t sung

dirge that swells- expands when we’re not careful,
pent and held in on the balls of our feet. The tightrope ballet. Mourning the living
will make you too tired to dance

It will make you graceless.

a) A stork flies over the lake, dropping a baby to a woman paddling a canoe. She catches it like a touchdown, but her oars slip into the water, and are lost.

1. Sometimes I feel like riding a steamroller over the graves, over the monuments, over the trophy cases. Compared to the river cutting the mountain in half, we flow only one way, too. Me and you, mountains and rivers all the live long day.

Epistolary

By A.M. O'Malley

Poem

Dear Brother,

The night you were born it was summer in Chino Valley. That night the curly valley was a bowl of lizards. I drank Fresca and counted wasps. Our mother, in another room of the house, tried to be calm. Earlier that day in the whitest heat I crept to her bedroom window to watch your father try to induce her, playing with her plate sized nipples. I was caught. You were late.

We need air all the time.

the broadcast of a tea kettle
the ignition of a ghost fog

mercury snapping through linden
& the orchard’s doe is polka-dotted

on a road as open as a new notebook;
you, snow-stormed in the dawn of exits

husband & harpooner

with an iceberg caving in the thorax

For Alan Dann

A woman came up to me in Bloomingdales and said she liked my glasses and I told her where to get them and she said, “what do you think I am — a millionaire?” and stomped off.
A woman came up to me in grad school and said she wished she was as smart as I was and I told her where to find the good theory books at the library and she said “what do you think I am — stupid or something?” and threw down her copy of Derrida’s On Grammatology and stomped off.

Trusting only in

my legions of cats and piles of
                    sweaters, holy tights
          and wool dresses.

Oh, to be more than a hand-
                              stringing-out words
on a clothesline,

          like a bad joke for no audience.

          No one
at the bus stop.

                    Unemployed
                         in the
          afternoon.