Poetry

I Watching Black Sea sand draw away from your feet the lateness of faith—that teetering while slumped over a phone. That someone of the same hamlet knows little of it, of others of it. A menagerie of pottery shards and sheepskin. That a hermit is to others merely a country: a painting of a woman …

Two poems by Preeti Parikh in an exclusive excerpt from issue 20.2.

A rugged coyote wandered close by the oceanside communities. Tired, it sat beneath a palm tree and took a nap. It dreamed of its former life as a medieval dragon. It had conquered many rustic lands as a fierce dragon. Now, the lonesome coyote hardly ever sang anymore. Most of the city slickers didn’t realize …

It will be better, our friend said,           to just accept that everythingis gone—as though lightening            with that expression the weight of each breathless            click throughout the evening,as on a map we watched            her apartment standing right beyond the fire’s red            line but never crossingin. As if after evacuating            the home, one next empties hope. I …

Outside, the swarm. The dog found it first,ran crying, and now we’re both wearing balaclavasin July. You in mittens, two sweatshirts, some Oakleysfrom God knows where, hands up against the sliding glass.After the poison, the exterminator, still the waspsevery morning. The dog’s face swollen now like a football.In their nest they sleep well, we think. …

after Untitled (Hang iambics), Cy Twombly, 1994 so why not ask that halo of dark whisper for anything, everything: why not write the litany of wax and ash on the first page of the book ofAll My Shortcomings? Haven’t I lived long enoughin the bone hollow, long enough in bonebreak and brakelight?When do I not …

           with a phrase from Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy” a name is a noose that won’t let you be.my full name was once woven from threefibers, a cord of three that i dare to breakinto two knots on a tongue. please excuse,foreman, my Hebrew. Yirmeyahu means Godis high. it’s why i love the tower from distance.O- …

grandma unfolds her dress, & 1967 patternsinto life, its story mapped in provinces, infamilies splayed naked on a dusking weave. The dressis handsewn, seaming bound by restitching. Lilac & rhubarbthreads haphazard & layer threefold along the waistlike fingers of smoke. Mesmerizing, because a dying fireis a spectacle. The dress of a hometown documentingevery small violence. …

It is winter butthe poets are still coming.I once lived in atown where there were no poetsor children. The treeswere made of salt. When the windshook, nothing happenedbut daylight. There were no handssince there was nothing to take.