I fucked your husband and I don’t feel
__bad enough for the bourgeoisie. My sexuality
roughly translating into teenage vampire,
__my blood a pop song programmed to some
which codes the luminous tree at your gate
which broad night renders its own wild leap
My Body is a Country & I Built A Wall Around It...more
who hands o-
ver their on-
I’m spending National Poetry Month at the Millay Colony, former home of Edna St. Vincent Millay. My colleague and friend, poet and writer Jen Fitzgerald, will be writing the Mixtape column this month—and we are all lucky for it. Enjoy Jen’s robust selections and I’ll see you in May....more
Banjo Yes Plucks an Apple from a Tree in a Park
-For Tamir Rice
I hold an apple in my hand on set
It is or ain’t an apple ain’t a real
Apple depending on am I in the shot
Or am I watching with the crew a real...more
nectarine & leather (riot)
we said they’d never miss it our skin is twisted as harvest & smells like summer all day I hungered outside for something that is not here the rain came went...more
Letters from Satilla
Diann Blakely, 1957-2014
Have you read Andrew Hudgins’ After the Lost War
or even Sidney Lanier’s “The Marshes of Glynn”?
Sissieretta Jones, Carnegie Hall, 1902:
O patria mia.
Aida, buried in the darkness
of her fate. Aida, singing
in the tomb of her lover.
Her lover a notion pale as
the aria circling from her mouth.