Diannely Antigua
As I watch a man steal fruit on the corner
of Myrtle Ave and Broadway, I want to know
what to do with the memory, days of the week
underwear, the hand cupping the small cones […]
As I watch a man steal fruit on the corner
of Myrtle Ave and Broadway, I want to know
what to do with the memory, days of the week
underwear, the hand cupping the small cones […]
Pedestrians point to the out of frame
lamppost, sky, storefront
all parallel to those in view through
the window one woman calls
Self-Portrait with Various Faces
[…]
They say I need to
hold a man
with strength but also
delicateness. […]
The child kicks off her sandals,
breathing in the wild summer.
Hot cobblestones beneath her smarting feet,
she races into the empty plaza […]
what i once said, what i never meant
an entire night
bursting with skeletons […]
and each and every
each and every inch
of each and every each […]
I see all the tiny interventions – the gun points, but doesn’t fire, the woman chokes but doesn’t die, the chain of the poem loops dangerously around her neck. What does it mean to survive? […]
Nothing in the herbarium compares to these tendrils collapsed over intertidal rock. […]
My ancestors are buried in our backyard and my mother says it is comforting to have them all in one place, but it is more of a burden to me. I am a girl with bones made for war […]
that it wasn’t him, it was her. She was a cavern.
I think sometimes I wish
your tongue could sneak
like crocus, the base buried in indigo,
tip flushed purple on the tiniest of stems. […]
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