Stay updated with breaking news from Issue 161. Get real-time updates on events, politics, business, and more. Visit us for reliable news and exclusive interviews.
I wouldn’t know, but when I imagine being there in the roomwith the real thing, its many glowing painted sections are nearlyweightless, and they float, silent, barely held together by their frames,and in the darkness, in my head, they fold slightly, hinged wingsthat make me want to go in them, walk the green field, be amongthe crowd of devotees—which I am not, not Christian,
TW: lynchingThere’s a photo of Laura Nelson, a rope between her and a tree. The backdrop, more trees. A person in the picture is bound to history.Bound to the same color.And there’s a sculpture of Mary Turner in bronze holding her stomach. She is childless.Her husband Hazel died a day before her but with less spectacle.I always thought my mother was crazy for the way she wore
After Robert Creeley Bitten night spilling sharps. Lowing clouds eye the Pinelawns of dead influences to me. I’ll never live in a house with a woman who writes under an uneasingly settling sun. Contrapuntal outruns cannons. Darkness thousand rounds us to bed. Love for one all my rest. My mind too a mangle is.
His car is a nervous breakdown, scattering chrome along the motorway. He gasps through panic attacks in tunnels and medieval towers. The falconry display goes on regardless and eejits in velour have a crack at each other with plywood lances. I’m in fugue state, headphones glued to me as mum calls to accuse him of kidnapping. Come for a drink, he says. No. Retreat to the
Cropping the image I see how sparse the yield this year of further wearing— I find my way there by fewer paths but know those fewer paths more intensely, the bits I have lost are not lost to the greater picture, and when I saw it closely, obscurely, or in panorama, I could see what would be hidden from me. A wasp’s single mud cell, the crumpled body of a window spider tapping