The Best American Poetry 2014 (7 page)

We want pictures of everything

Below your waist, and we want

Pictures of your waist. We can't

Talk right now, but we will text you

Into coitus. All thumbs. All bi-

Coastal and discreet and masculine

And muscular. No whites. Every

Body a top. We got a career

To think about. No face. We got

Kids to remember. No one over 29.

No one under 30. Our exes hurt us

Into hurting them. Disease free. No

Drugs. We like to get high with

The right person. You

Got a girl? Bring your boy.

We visiting. Room at the W.

Name's D. Name's J. We DeeJay.

We Trey. We Troy. We Q. We not

Sending a face. Where should we

Go tonight? You coming through? Please

Know what a gym looks like. Not much

Time. No strings. No place, no

Face. Be clean. We haven't met

Anyone here yet. Why is it so hard

To make friends? No games. You

Still coming through? Latinos only.

Blacks will do. We can take one right

Now. Text it to you. Be there next

Week. Be there in June. We not a phone

Person. We can host, but we won't meet

Without a recent pic and a real name

And the sound of your deepest voice.

from
Vinyl Poetry

In Mexico, they bake bread

for those who died—flat

little cakes they leave around the house

for a mother or father or a child

to find. The dead are living

like us, growing fat, paying their debts,

brushing their teeth on schedule.

Sometimes it's hard to make your way

across a room to shake someone's

hand or give them a drink. The dead

are always there, in their evening gowns

and tuxedoes, expecting to be served—

asking for more crackers or champagne.

Just making love is a sacrilege!

The grandmother is there and the school

teacher and the delicate sister,

even those who are not yet born,

more innocent than babies. You get

up in the morning to comb your

hair and you are combing the brittle hair

of the dead, which goes on growing

like the eyelids and the finger

nails, as if the body were the last

to know or simply stubborn.

And maybe that's what the cakes are for—

to nourish the vanity of the corpse,

who after all would like to look

as good as possible on such a great

occasion. Listen! You hear the leaves

cracking faintly at dusk, a tire humming

on dry pavement, the sound of water

rushing through a pipe? The dead

are hungry! You must take

your knives and bowls and go down

into the cellar; you must begin to chant

those old recipes you've been saving—

mixing your own blood with the dry

sand the dead grow fat on,

that the children of the dead roll

into loaves for you to eat—

for the dust that will eventually pass

entirely through you.

from
Terminus Magazine

don't be

afraid of

all we have pending

plasma I sold

in Albuquerque

broke even with

food I purchased to produce it

we can manage we can start under

this tree a quiet hour of

dozing into the bark will

reveal the step forward

things thinking about one another

this crystal and feather

ask me to bring them

together put them behind

the books they want a

private conversation and

that means me getting lost to

fellowship with grass soil and little

stones who tell me there is no clear

sense of when we leave this world

an owl drops a mouse in front of me

it doesn't have to mean something

but it probably does

help fishing a glass eye out of

the garbage disposal was my

favorite time helping anyone

he was so happy pushing it

back into his head shaking

my hand at the same time

we both wished he wasn't

my boyfriend's brother

from
Denver Quarterly

[Ibykos fr. 286
PMG
]

In spring, on the one hand,

the Kydonian apple trees,

being watered by streams of rivers

where the uncut garden of the maidens [is]

and vine blossoms

swelling

beneath shady vine branches

bloom.

On the other hand, for me

Eros lies quiet at no season.

Nay rather,

like a Thracian north wind

ablaze with lightning,

rushing from Aphrodite

accompanied by parching madnesses,

black,

unastonishable,

powerfully,

right up from the bottom of my feet

[it] shakes my whole breathing being.

[fr. 286 translated as “Woman's Constancy” by John Donne]

In woman, on the one hand,

those contracts

being purposed by change and falsehood,

where lovers' images [forswear the persons that we were],

and true deaths

sleeping

beneath true marriages,

antedate.

On the other hand, me

thy vow hast not conquered.

Nay rather,

like that new-made Tomorrow,

now disputing,

now abstaining,

accompanied by Love and his wrath,

truly,

not truly,

if I would,

if I could,

[it] justifies my one whole lunatic escape.

[fr. 286 as Bertolt Brecht's FBI file #100-67077]

At a cocktail party attended by known Communists, on the one hand,

the subject

being suitably paraphrased as Mr & Mrs Bert Brecht,

where ten years of exile have left their mark,

and beneath 5 copies of file 100-190707,

Charles Laughton

returning to the stage as Galileo,

enters an elevator.

On the other hand, of my name with a hyphen between Eugene and Friedrich

the Bureau has no record.

Nay rather,

like the name of a certain Frenchman to whom Charles Laughton might send

packages,

accompanied by an unknown woman

who spoke to an unknown man,

or accompanied by an unknown man

who spoke to an unknown woman,

and in the event that all the captions are not correct,

please turn to page 307.

[fr. 286 as p. 47 of
Endgame
by Samuel Beckett]

In your kitchen, on the one hand,

bright corpses

starting to stink of having an idea,

where one of my legs [is]

and beneath sooner or later

the whole universe

doesn't ring and won't work.

On the other hand, I shouldn't think so.

Nay rather,

like a speck in the void,

pacing to and fro,

accompanied by the alarm,

frankly,

angrily,

impatiently,

not very convinced,

[it] kisses me goodbye. I'm dead. (Pause).

[Ibykos fr. 286 as pp. 136–37 of
Conversations with Kafka
by Gustav Janouch]

In the end, on the one hand, all those who sit behind us at the cash desks,

being engaged in the most destructive and hopeless rebellion there could ever be,

where everything human [has been betrayed]

and

beneath the burden of existence

stock phrases,

with a gentle indefinable smile,

arouse suspicion.

On the other hand,

one who is afraid should not go into the wood.

Nay rather,

like modern armies,

accompanied by lightly spoken phrases in Czech or German,

fearlessly,

patiently,

unfortunately,

against myself,

against my own limitations and apathy,

against this very desk and chair I'm sitting in,

the charge is clear: one is condemned to life not death.

[fr. 286 as stops and signs from the London Underground]

At the excess fare window, on the one hand, the king's bakers,

ditching old shepherds for new elephants,

where east and west [cross north]

and beneath black friars forbidden from barking in church,

angels

mind the gap.

On the other hand,

a multi-ride ticket does not send me padding southwark.

Nay rather, like the seven sisters

gardening in the British Museum,

accompanied by penalties,

tooting,

turnpiked,

hackneyed,

Kentish,

cockfostered,

I am advised to expect delays all the way to the loo.

[fr. 286 as pp. 17–18 of
The Owner's Manual
of my new Emerson 1000W

microwave oven]

In hot snacks and appetizers, on the one hand, the soy, barbecue, Worcestershire

or steak sauce,

being sprinkled with paprika,

where a “browned appearance” [is desirable]

and beneath the magnetron tube

soggy crackers,

wrapped in bacon,

toughen.

On the other hand, a frozen pancake

will not crust.

Nay rather,

like radio waves,

bubbling,

spattering,

dispersing their spin,

and IMPORTANTLY should you omit to vent the plastic wrap,

or flip the pieces halfway through,

or properly position the special microwave popcorn popper,

[it] will burn your nose right off.

from
London Review of Books