Issue 5

Of Export

 · Poetry

On Fisherman Street,
I asked which boats 
leak most, how much fur to
plug holes, where to
to stuff stale newsprint.

Of course
there are many ways to lose
garfish, water, grain expressed 
into a baby’s mouth. Or you, 
who downed a friends’ breast 
milk, said it tasted of 
coconut, sweet dissolves. 

I know it is selfish to want
the Navajo rug to
wrap me in a new opera
of evasion, transmute what
I cannot say about big topics:

carnival, limes,
rocks in the pockets
of other rocks. 

Lowering my stratum
from troubadour to vibradour, 
my colleagues so clever
with their innuendoes.

A clever man called me
clever once while we
fucked on mosaics.
Dance closer, you
are clever. All the forgetting
seems key:

Rocks in the pockets

Rocks in  nostrils

Buoyant cardboard

shaped into swan boats

Sunken irons


by grandfathers 

from Moldavia

Of apnea 
and red flies 
on the docks,
of little girls’
exhausting critiques.

              Of a body’s 
              to export
              to admit a
              agent with barbs
              and paddles 
              into her

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