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there is ghazal swimming inside of her, wanting to be born. on the matter of foretelling, of small miracles, cactus flowers in bloom on this city fire escape, where inside your tongue touches every inch of her skin, where you lay your hand on her belly and sleep. here, she fingers the ornate remains of ancient mosques. here, some mythic angel will rise from the dust of ancestors’ bones. this is where you shall worship, at the intersections of distilled deities and memory’s sharp edges. the country is quite a poetic place; water and rock contain verse and metaphor, even wild grasses reply in rhyme. you are not broken. she knows this having captured a moment of lucidity; summer lightning bugs, sun’s rays in a jelly jar. this is not a love poem, but a cove to escape the flux, however momentary. she is still a child, confabulating the fantastic; please do not erode her wonder for the liquid that is your language. there is thunderstorm in her chest, wanting to burst through her skin. this is neither love poem nor plea. this is not river, nor stone.

(Francisco X. Alarcón) asleep you become a continent— undiscovered, mysterious, long, your legs mountain ranges encircling valleys, ravines night slips past your eyelids, your breath the swaying of the sea, sprawled across the bed like a dolphin washed ashore, your mouth is the mouth of a sated volcano, O fragrant timber, how do you burn? you are so near, and yet so far as you doze like a lily at my side, I undo myself and invoke the moon— I’m a dog watching over your sleep

A child climbs into a cardboard house, shuts its doors and windows to hold in the dark, and lies on her back inside, looking up through its cut-out moon and stars. She knows she is not looking at the sky. But she calls out, still, It's nighttime! I'm looking at the sky!

O absent presence, Stella is not here; False flattering hope, that with so fair a face Bare me in hand, that in this orphan place Stella, I say my Stella, should appear. What say’st thou now? Where is that dainty cheer Thou told’st mine eyes should help their famished case? But thou art gone, now that self-felt disgrace Doth make me most to wish thy comfort near. But here I do store of fair ladies meet, Who may with charm of conversation sweet Make in my heavy mould new thoughts to grow: Sure they prevail as much with me, as he That bade his friend, but then new maimed, to be Merry with him, and not think of his woe.

Fly, fly, my friends, I have my death wound, fly! See there that boy, that murd'ring boy, I say, Who, like a thief, hid in dark bush doth lie Till bloody bullet get him wrongful prey. So tyrant he no fitter place could spy, Nor so fair level in so secret stay, As that sweet black which veils the heav'nly eye; There himself with his shot he close doth lay. Poor passenger, pass now thereby I did, And stay'd, pleas'd with the prospect of the place, While that black hue from me the bad guest hid; But straight I saw motions of lightning grace And then descried the glist'ring of his dart: But ere I could fly thence it pierc'd my heart.

Having this day my horse, my hand, my lance Guided so well that I obtain'd the prize, Both by the judgment of the English eyes And of some sent from that sweet enemy France; Horsemen my skill in horsemanship advance, Town folks my strength; a daintier judge applies His praise to sleight which from good use doth rise; Some lucky wits impute it but to chance; Others, because of both sides I do take My blood from them who did excel in this, Think Nature me a man of arms did make. How far they shot awry! The true cause is, Stella look'd on, and from her heav'nly face Sent forth the beams which made so fair my race.

The statue, that cast Of my solitude Has found its niche In this kitchen Where I do not eat Where the bathtub stands Upon cat feet— I did not advance I cannot retreat

Give me hunger, O you gods that sit and give The world its orders. Give me hunger, pain and want, Shut me out with shame and failure From your doors of gold and fame, Give me your shabbiest, weariest hunger! But leave me a little love, A voice to speak to me in the day end, A hand to touch me in the dark room Breaking the long loneliness. In the dusk of day-shapes Blurring the sunset, One little wandering, western star Thrust out from the changing shores of shadow. Let me go to the window, Watch there the day-shapes of dusk And wait and know the coming Of a little love.

Enclosure, steam-heated; a trial casket. You are here; your name on a postal box; entrance into another place like vapor. No one knows you. No one speaks to you. All of their cocks stare down their pant legs at the ground. Their cunts are blind. They barely let you through the check-out line. Have a nice day. Plastic or paper? Are you origami? A paper folded swan, like the ones you made when you were ten? When you saw the constellations, lying on your back in the wet grass, the soapy pear blossoms drifting and wasting, and those stars, the burned out ones whose light was still coming in waves; your body was too slight. How could it hold such mass? Still on your lips the taste of something. All night you waited for morning, all morning for afternoon, all afternoon for night; and still the longing sings. Oh, paper bird with folded wings.

Like the horn you played in Catholic school the city will open its mouth and cry out.Don't worry 'bout nothing. Don't mean no thing. It will leave you stunned as a fighter with his eyes swelled shut who's told he won the whole damn purse. It will feel better than any floor that's risen up to meet you. It will rise like Easter bread, golden and familiar in your grandmother's hands. She'll come back, heaven having been too far from home to hold her. O it will be beautiful. Every girl will ask you to dance and the boys won't kill you for it. Shake your head. Dance until your bones clatter. What a prize you are. What a lucky sack of stars.