Love can feel muddled, vast, diffuse; so little to do with the singular volatility of a firework. I hunger for that kind of crystalline precision, though. That clarity. To scream myself across the sky just once—consuming everything in my wake—and then vanish from view.
Hearing old people’s memories is like watching a once-in-three-generations downpour. In the past, they lived in abundance and air conditioning. So many details go over Salwa’s head. She doesn’t know how to transcribe all the words.
An excerpt from The Rumpus Poetry Book Club‘s October selection, American Treasure by Jill McDonough forthcoming from Alice James Books on November 8, 2022 Subscribe by September 15 to the…
“Everything looks good,” the neurologist said. The hairs on his head, she couldn’t help noticing, resembled plump white beansprouts—they stood from his scalp as if fat with water. His fingers too. “The only thing is that you have extra fungus in your head.”
I wished I knew a word for the green of moss right when it starts up freshly in spring. I would lie down on it and roll around. I would pray to it. I would sing its name.
An excerpt from The Rumpus Book Club‘s October selection, Pretend It’s My Body by Luke Dani Blue published by Feminist Press October 18, 2022 Subscribe by September 15 to the…