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Baffler Archives: Poems

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Diaspora Sonnet 49
He should have stayed home and didn’t move beyond seeing himself in the windows of the storefronts, Vegas, Rodeo Drive, the palm lined streets of Miami where petrichor sticks to sinuses and where the secretly despised teens in bikinis cast wide gazes. All this languor tugs him ...

Magnitude and Bond
November 05, 2018
We were, all of us, ethered              when the window broke. Soon after, the floor                             bent. The wood collapsing upon itself formed a new dimension,              a new danger. I wanted to kiss                     ...

Go-go Ode
November 05, 2018
O capacious room, give me your tongues. I’m done with being self- possessed. Take hold, turn the river in me. I’m freed up to be anybody else, my molecules twinned with the sound. O erotic ours, pass me not. Keep me in the pocket. O percussive dissent, devotion is anything ...

The Fathers Swarm to Meet the Boats
November 05, 2018
Every night I dream of fathers, their bodies ferried away  into the far corner between sleep and waking. Always there is a dock, the possibility of splinter. File by file, tall ligaments of ash-light, the fathers move across the wooden slats, careening into water. The bed is a ...

Between the Plumage We Were Everything
November 05, 2018
In the impossible, we bring home to roost a discordant feeling—widow buttons in all black still with our funeral rings. My lovers, all buried, twisted in the soil, can never fathom the wing that will bite me back, but you touch me where my grin shines brightest in a noxious ...

Where to Begin?
First, we’re skinny-dipping, Sam & I, in a pond in Tennessee,   which is his idea, I should say, & the tree with the rope swing looms darker   than the dark night sky.   Second, the harvest moon, which we came here to see,   is nowhere to be ...

Installation
September 03, 2018
When you leave the museum of contemporary art, opening the doors to midday, you may need a few minutes to reset context: the bike shackled to the sign is only a bike, the sign only a sign, no small white exhibit labels. Out here birds are nothing but their crumb-begging ...

In the Grand Scheme of Things
September 03, 2018
It sounds like someone wound up the wrens and let them go, let them chatter across your lawn   like cheap toys, and from here an airplane seems to fly only from one tree to another, barely   chalking a line between them. We say the naked eye as if the eye could be ...

Penal Cistern Lightning Throne
My skin sack was taken to the Hall of Pictures in the Capitol. My Zipps seemed made to slide across the marble floor. Though careful careful of my balance. So walked slow as the other kids flew by. Slow and serious skater. Past the paintings and the statues of steel men in ...