Life (With Apologies to Chekhov)

By DENISE DUHAMEL

In this story, the gun
doesn’t go off. The sun
melts the pistol into a vase,
the intact barrel becoming a lip
to hold flowers. The un-murdered
kiss, their clothes sliding
to the floor, their orgasms proof
of a feminine ending.

 

Denise Duhamel’s most recent book of poetry is ScaldBlowout was a finalist for the National Book Critics Circle Award. Her other titles include Ka-Ching!Two and TwoQueen for a Day: Selected and New Poems;The Star-Spangled Banner; and Kinky. Her most recent collaborations are CAPRICE (Collaborations: Collected, Uncollected, and New) with Maureen Seaton and The Unrhymables: Collaborations in Prose with Julie Marie Wade. She teaches in the MFA program at Florida International University in Miami.

 

[Purchase Issue 17 here.]

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!

Life (With Apologies to Chekhov)

Related Posts

July Poetry Feature: New Poems by Our Contributors

AMIYA MORETTA
Magnolia tree in the window, hammock, / a loop in hours, a cradle of light we swing inside, / naming what we’re afraid of. / In this version, he is from halfway around the world. / Some net caught the curve of us in the dark, / gathered what it could, his hand, my pulse.

Caribbean picture

Self-Portrait in The Caribbean

PAOLA ASSAD BARBARINO
Sometimes I am emboldened, / I decide to stand in the people’s balcony / I decide it is Maundy Thursday I decide to place a priest behind me that can speak to the people behind / my back / I decide to put out the fire and light my throat / scream

Feltspade

ELIAS SADAQ
I serve out my conscription / sleep in a bunk bed / for four cold months / in the engineer regiment at Skive Garrison / in a room with three other men / I fuck the colonel / the only sign that time is passing / is a pile of snow outside the window / that grows smaller