Read Online The Best American Poetry 2013 by David Lehman - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: David Lehman
Ads: Link
has happened,
what is happening, what will happen? God knows.
God knows everything. The boy? He is much more
than Mafia; he, and his, own the country. His militias
will fight to the death if for no other reason than
if heâs overthrown they will be killed, too. âIraq,
you remember Iraq, donât you?â she shouts,
a refugee. Her English is good. Reached via Skype,
she speaks anonymously, afraid of repercussions.
âYou wonât believe what I have seenââher voice
lowered almost to a whisperââa decapitated
body with a dogâs head sewn on it, for example.â
Yes, I know, itâs much more complicated than that.
âItâs the arena right now where the major players are,â
the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs concludes
his exclusive CNN interview. Dagestanâits province
in the North Caucasusâis what the Russians compare
it to, warring clans, sects; Lebanese-like civil war
will break out and spread across the region. Online,
a reportâBeirut, the Associated Pressâ
this morning, â28 minutes ago. 4 Said to Be Dead
at Syrian University,â one Samer Qawass,
thrown, it is said, by pro-regime students
out of the fifth-floor window of his dormitory room,
dying instantly from the fall . . .
from The Nation
ANNA JOURNEY
Wedding Night: We Share an Heirloom Tomato on Our Hotel Balcony Overlooking the Ocean in Which Natalie Wood Drowned
for David
We imagine Natalie held a gelatinous green
sliver on her tongue, that its watery
disk caught the lamplight before
she slipped from her yacht
to drown in the waves off this island. This was
thirty years ago. And our tomatoâs strain
stretches back decades, to an heirloom seed
saved before either of us was born,
before Natalieâs elbow
brushed the clouded jade
face of the ancestral fruit
in a Catalina stand, before she handed it
to her husband, saying, This one. We hover
near the plate, where the last
half of our shadowed tomato
sits in its skinâs deep pleats. I lean
toward you to trace each
salted crease with a thumbnailâ
brined and wild as those lines
clawed in the green
side of the yachtâs
rubber dinghy. Those lingering
shapes the coroner foundâthe drowned
actressâs scratch marks. That night
we first met, I had another lover
but you didnât
care. My Belliniâs peach puree,
our waiter said, had sailed across
the Atlantic, from France. It swirled
as I sipped and sank
to the glass bottom
of my champagne flute. You whispered,
Guilt is the most
useless emotion. After Natalie rolled
into the waves, the wet feathers
of her down coat wrapped
their white anchors
at her hips. This was 1981. I turned
a year old that month and somewhere
an heirloom seed
washed up. You felt an odd breeze
knock at your elbow as I took
my first step. We hadnât yet met.
Tonight, we watch the wet date palms tip
toward the surf and, curling,
swallow their tongues.
from The Southern Review
LAURA KASISCHKE
Perspective
Like the lake turned to
steel by the twilit
sky. Like
the Flood in the toilet
to the housefly.
Like the sheet
thrown over
the secret love. Like
the sheet thrown over
the blood on the rug.
Or the pages
of the novel
scattered by the wind:
The end
at the beginning
in the middle again.
And the sudden sense.
The polished lens.
The revision
revisioned, as if
as if.
As if
the secretâ
had you told me when.
Who I thought
we were, every-
where we went.
from New England Review
VICTORIA KELLY
When the Men Go Off to War
What happens when they leave
is that the houses fold up like paper dolls,
the children roll up their socks and sweaters
and tuck the dogs into little black suitcases.
Across the street the trees are unrooting,
the mailboxes rising up like dandelion stems,
and eventually we too float off,
the houses tucked neatly inside our purses, and the children
tumbling gleefully
what is happening, what will happen? God knows.
God knows everything. The boy? He is much more
than Mafia; he, and his, own the country. His militias
will fight to the death if for no other reason than
if heâs overthrown they will be killed, too. âIraq,
you remember Iraq, donât you?â she shouts,
a refugee. Her English is good. Reached via Skype,
she speaks anonymously, afraid of repercussions.
âYou wonât believe what I have seenââher voice
lowered almost to a whisperââa decapitated
body with a dogâs head sewn on it, for example.â
Yes, I know, itâs much more complicated than that.
âItâs the arena right now where the major players are,â
the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs concludes
his exclusive CNN interview. Dagestanâits province
in the North Caucasusâis what the Russians compare
it to, warring clans, sects; Lebanese-like civil war
will break out and spread across the region. Online,
a reportâBeirut, the Associated Pressâ
this morning, â28 minutes ago. 4 Said to Be Dead
at Syrian University,â one Samer Qawass,
thrown, it is said, by pro-regime students
out of the fifth-floor window of his dormitory room,
dying instantly from the fall . . .
from The Nation
ANNA JOURNEY
Wedding Night: We Share an Heirloom Tomato on Our Hotel Balcony Overlooking the Ocean in Which Natalie Wood Drowned
for David
We imagine Natalie held a gelatinous green
sliver on her tongue, that its watery
disk caught the lamplight before
she slipped from her yacht
to drown in the waves off this island. This was
thirty years ago. And our tomatoâs strain
stretches back decades, to an heirloom seed
saved before either of us was born,
before Natalieâs elbow
brushed the clouded jade
face of the ancestral fruit
in a Catalina stand, before she handed it
to her husband, saying, This one. We hover
near the plate, where the last
half of our shadowed tomato
sits in its skinâs deep pleats. I lean
toward you to trace each
salted crease with a thumbnailâ
brined and wild as those lines
clawed in the green
side of the yachtâs
rubber dinghy. Those lingering
shapes the coroner foundâthe drowned
actressâs scratch marks. That night
we first met, I had another lover
but you didnât
care. My Belliniâs peach puree,
our waiter said, had sailed across
the Atlantic, from France. It swirled
as I sipped and sank
to the glass bottom
of my champagne flute. You whispered,
Guilt is the most
useless emotion. After Natalie rolled
into the waves, the wet feathers
of her down coat wrapped
their white anchors
at her hips. This was 1981. I turned
a year old that month and somewhere
an heirloom seed
washed up. You felt an odd breeze
knock at your elbow as I took
my first step. We hadnât yet met.
Tonight, we watch the wet date palms tip
toward the surf and, curling,
swallow their tongues.
from The Southern Review
LAURA KASISCHKE
Perspective
Like the lake turned to
steel by the twilit
sky. Like
the Flood in the toilet
to the housefly.
Like the sheet
thrown over
the secret love. Like
the sheet thrown over
the blood on the rug.
Or the pages
of the novel
scattered by the wind:
The end
at the beginning
in the middle again.
And the sudden sense.
The polished lens.
The revision
revisioned, as if
as if.
As if
the secretâ
had you told me when.
Who I thought
we were, every-
where we went.
from New England Review
VICTORIA KELLY
When the Men Go Off to War
What happens when they leave
is that the houses fold up like paper dolls,
the children roll up their socks and sweaters
and tuck the dogs into little black suitcases.
Across the street the trees are unrooting,
the mailboxes rising up like dandelion stems,
and eventually we too float off,
the houses tucked neatly inside our purses, and the children
tumbling gleefully
Similar Books
