Inheritance

By BRIAN SIMONEAU

 
Watch where now we walk: city shuttered from its own
past, abandoned tracks replaced with mulch and gravel
 
trails coursing through a park of imported forest
the way original sin veins every future.

 
Given choice, let’s follow the snake who understood
nothing’s good as its promise, every deception
 
possible only when still we fail to notice
what stink survives beneath the shine, still so willing
 
to lose ourselves to bliss. See: each path leading in
also leads out, exile the end of every road.

 

 

[Purchase Issue 19 here.] 

Brian Simoneau is the author of the poetry collection River Bound. His second collection, No Small Comfort, is forthcoming from Black Lawrence Press in 2021. His poems have appeared in Boston Review, The Cincinnati Review, Colorado Review, Crazyhorse, Four Way Review, The Georgia Review, Mid-American Review, Salamander, Third Coast, and other journals. Originally from Lowell, Massachusetts, he lives near Boston with his family.

Inheritance

Related Posts

Chinese Palace

Portfolio from China: Poetry Feature I

LI ZHUANG
In your fantasy, the gilded eaves of Tang poked at the sun. / In their shadow, a phoenix rose. / Amid the smoke of burned pepper and orchids, / the emperor’s favorite consort twirled her long sleeves. / Once, in Luo Yang, the moon and the sun shone together.

Xu sits with Grandma He, the last natural heir of Nüshu, and her two friends next to her home in Jiangyong. Still from Xu’s documentary film, “Outside Women’s Café (2023)”. Image courtesy of the artist.

Against This Earth, We Knock

JINJIN XU
The script takes the form of a willow-like text, distinctive from traditional Chinese text in its thin shape and elegance. Whenever Grandma He’s grandmother taught her to write the script, she would cry, as if the physical act of writing the script is an act of confession.

a photo of raindrops on blue window glass

Portfolio from China: Poetry Feature II

YUN QIN WANG 
June rain draws a cross on the glass.  / Alcohol evaporates.  / If I come back to you,  / I can write. My time in China  / is an unending funeral.  / Nobody cried. The notebook is wet.