Poem.com Newsletter – Poem of the day

Jennifer Huang

I wear the gown wrong so I can’t be touched.But the doctor, delicate in her asking, asks meTo open. I am not accustomed to this gentle;I crush it. It is summer here. These wallsFluorescent white so light I can feel me burn.The doctor and a body. The vinegarShe puts inside me. I glue a mouthTo this heart. She wants to cut me apart.No, she wants to cut a part from me,Hold cotton until I clot. On the wall:Laughing child splashed by water. I amAware of my heart. I count my blessings:Three missed calls, two mirrors, one bouquet.I am numb. Then I touch some place low.
from the book RETURN FLIGHT Milkweed Editions
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Color image of a fountain pen against a blurred background
“What Novelists Can Learn From Poets”“It felt good to not think about the project I’d been working on for years, but instead to think about the unconventional moments I found in poetry: how few words could be used to arrive at something weighty; the distinct imagery, the narrative turns, and the way bright clarity often crashes like a wave at the end, leaving behind something frothing and alive in its wake.”via LITHUB
Cover of Wanda Coleman's pamphlet, Art in the Court of the Blue Fag, from Black Sparrow Press
What Sparks Poetry:Dana Levin on Wanda Coleman’s “The Woman and Her Thang”“Standing at the magazine rack at Beyond Baroque, I opened Coleman’s chapbook at random and read: ‘She kept it in a black green felt-lined box.’ Ten monosyllabs—how I loved saying them, each one a kind of floating stone in the mouth—introducing the speaker’s ‘thang’: seductive and dangerous, wreaking havoc on her love life.”