I cut off my nose, / her nose collapses. / Chop down my hair & / hers shrieks from the sink. / How many poems do I / have to write ‘til she / gets dead, how many / live-wire syllables?
Nothing’s Freudian anymore. A cigar’s a cigar. I want to love something. / I want to love something without having to apologize for it. Please don’t tell.
Every year, The Rumpus celebrates National Poetry Month by running new poems from poets we admire. We feature a different poet each day, and aim to illustrate the variety in voices and styles of poetry being written today.
Every year, The Rumpus celebrates National Poetry Month by running new poems from poets we admire. We feature a different poet each day, and aim to illustrate the variety in voices and styles of poetry being written today.