This poem comes after Jacques Derrida’s essay L’Animal que donc je suis (Paris: Éditions Galilée, 2006), while “the tracker’s marginalia” is imagined and glossed from The Oxyrhynchus papyri by Bernard Pyne Grenfell & Arthur Surridge Hunt (London Egypt Exploration Society, 1898), a lengthy exegesis of, among other texts, a fragment of Sophocles’s play Ichneutae (The Trackers). Read more →
I kiss my lover the same way I make
a cup of tea: pour water and milk into a saucepan
The ocean has a purpose.
Saying The past is the past is useless. Read more →
Did you believe me like you believe the Discovery
Channel when I said a woman like a seal comes
to ground only
to breed and nurse
like Doris Lessing Read more →
Florida is where we stretch America’s southern hand
into the ocean with no southern accent in our mouths.Read more →
The children are scattered hens
in the November playground,
pecking at the remnants of play.Read more →
Light consumes itself in space and under a bridge, in a howling river,
in a bag, beneath the floorboards, in her apartment, in a field,
on fire, in the trunk of a car, in a dank basement,
We look into a stippled sky where somewhere seven Earth-like planets
spin quiet around a distant dwarf star—
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I am wilting, wanting, a fly-swatting socialite.
I arrive in time to be in sync with grammar.
I am naked in a dust jacket. I am polite,
Writing an embossed lunch invite to the biosphere.
Let’s catapult the conchoidal colocynth
Let’s catapult the choephori of the coliddors of the tifth
and the mitten cruncher, the tomcat cruncher, crunchers of sheep
note cruncher, crunch-in-your-mouth and in arms and in deaths.
Let’s catapult the lynx and the oriole’s cochineal mantilla
let’s catapult the mango
and the mongoose, shoo!
Read more →