* 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 factory-cast by grandfathers from Moldavia * Of apnea and red flies on the docks, of little girls’ exhausting critiques. * Of a body’s willingness to export to admit a dominant agent with barbs and paddles into her breakdown.
Issue
5