Three washings and still under my fingernails the smell of September.
It’s as if Mario Montalbetti is daring his reader to seek permanence in poetry’s aftermath, to maintain remembrance in spite of the difficulty.
First flower, or nearly./ No one forces it to do anything./ This is the backdrop.
Reading No Budu Please is like committing to the excavation of the continual traumas that occur within a post-colonial consciousness.
What killed her/ knew the scent of her center well, knew how to woo her/ and did.
Something burning or maybe already burnt/ A cataract climbs a triage/ How many bushels in an apple?
In the morning we share cigarettes, and coffee.
Whatever is cool. Whatever is fine. Simple is fine.
The song /in your ears can be stopped/ with wax, or pink foam plugs/rolled between forefinger & thumb/ then shoved in.
Four poems from the Israeli poet Ortsion Bartana, translated from the original Hebrew by Hana Inbar and Robert Manaster.
A fly will strike its head ninety times/ before it finds an open window.
Museum of the Americas interrogates the white gaze and how the curation of the archive is another palimpsestic layer of control and power.