Issue 120

Death is so awkward.

Sometimes I think my soul is like a fist
that on occasion opens.

These recent books of psalms by Diane Glancy and Julia Fiedorczuk remind us that voices put us in the generative space of the shared, the relational; they engage us in a place of self and other, self and world, self and self.

I need her like I need the falseness
of my own voice explaining death to a toddler.

A baby raven calls to me by the window. I’m high in the morning again.

I held the glass I’d only just emptied
Up to my nose: I wanted another, and another,

Of the angels I slaughtered to get here
I miss cigarettes the most.

Anyone in love is insane.

Your children drive away and the river runs dry.