May 17—The Down Closes Up 10625

By SUSAN BRIANTE

Farid says he wants to be a family,
he adds, by which I mean I don’t want you to die.


Arizona gnaws at the constitution.

I want to tell him that since
I was a child I have dreamed
of feeling like this, by which I mean safe.
Instead we talk about the baby.
She will cry a lot the first days
her skin in clothes, the air,
darkness and light, touch and taste
will shock her to tears.

I just read that somewhere.

Outside, temperatures filibuster spring.
The Dow “eyes” jobs, uses
a variety of special characters,
while we find a hole in the birdfeeder,
count box tops for a water bottle,
enter contests for a green home.

Suzuki compares existence to wrenching a droplet of water from a stream.
As water falls
separated by wind and rocks,

we are separated from oneness, then we have feeling.

 

 

Susan Briante is the author of Pioneers in the Study of Motion, Utopia Minus, and the chapbook The Market Is a Parasite That Looks Like a Nest, part of an ongoing lyric investigation of the stock market.

Click here to purchase Issue 03

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

May 17—The Down Closes Up 10625

Related Posts

Map

By MARIN SORESCU trans. DANIEL CARDEN NEMO
If I see the ocean / I think that’s where / my soul should be, / otherwise the sheet of its marble / would make no waves.

A sculpture bunny leaning against a book

Three Poems by Mary Angelino

MARY ANGELINO
The woman comes back each week / to look at me, to look / at regret—that motor stuck in the living / room wall, ropes tied / to each object, spooling everything in. She / comes back to watch / what leaving does. Today, her portrait / splinters—last month, it was only / askew

Aleksandar Hemon and Stefan Bindley-Taylor's headshot

January Poetry Feature #2: Words and Music(ians)

STEFAN BINDLEY-TAYLOR
I am sure I will never get a name for the thing, the memory of which still sits at a peculiar tilt in my chest, in a way that feels different than when I think of my birthday, or my father coming home. It is the feeling that reminds you that there is unconditional love in the world, and it is all yours if you want.