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- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYbecause I have always sought stories grasping the myriad threads with tiny cribdeath fists I remember their tastes but particularly the shapes they rove in I could weave a tale with my eyes closed with my heart closed and it would sound like everything else I swear, nature doesn’t get too ...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYI wonder if radios ever blared the way TV screens do, demanding attention, not content with being background— I wonder if there was an equivalent to what I feel now, listening to the forever-drone of my sister’s idiot box, praying even for the sound of the people across the way up late par...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYI think sometimes about that door of his, the frantic cold, the breadth, the width. Subtle. Heartlessly tasteful. No one taught him that imperfection makes a thing still more perfect. There’s no feel, no scent, an almost suburban forgettableness. No distractions. Waiting at death’s do...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYuncanny night, you walk in beauty by yourself, no loveless lady could ever fit your steps which steadily divert the noise of day, unholy racket, and mute it into ghost music distant shouts without direction wordless, eyeless, no mouth to speak with you dance on, you dance on like every tabl...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYI mean having been sick this long Everything has a yellow tinge, a slight uncomfortable lightness thin like a sepia photograph or an old memory and I would give anything just to see in full color I would give anything to see anything but frail browns and frayed yellows or perhaps to forge...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYPlease take my silence as no for an answer. You can feel my absence like I felt yours, like the ghost of a limb you lost too long ago. But I have had to walk without, I have had to walk alone. And you just gasped awake from the fog of anesthesia in a hospital bed, they’re saying “sorry s...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYstrange old men with their own mores more's the pity, the world has refused to age with them and they with it, and so they come with morning (do they forgive the day its youth?) with their big drills and cigarettes and boisterous voices these are their tools and at breaktime they smoke...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYShe has about her that blueblood sadness, the gaunt and royal face, the martyr’s red circles lurk beneath her eyes. Sorrow curved her holy spine, which once stood straight with vindication, which once stood straight. All her hallowed blood was given, her veins are hollowed, they race wit...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYI have so many wounds, suddenly and I want them to shut but it seems like something is always opening old doors and leading me blind down ancient hallways the same rooms in ugly houses and sometimes I think that if I could just see if I lead someone else to safety maybe the doors will just sn...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYI mean, I wonder sometimes whether I was not made to see the fierce beauty of youth, that one candle flame that, for a moment, bursts and becomes the brightest star in the firmament, and then settles into ash, settles into dust. I wonder if I was dust from the beginning, whether I accumulate...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYI am split since I met you, America, my tongue has forked and my teeth have sharpened so they can now mince words like we used to crunch selodka or schnitzel which in Russia is called otbivnaya I am split between this jaded city (it has withstood armies and gentrification) and those cold plai...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYSome days it feels like every print I make in earth is shadowed by another, lighter step, like I am hunted, followed and the shudders roll and shrink beneath my skin but I just smile and say hi again it doesn’t do to snub the dead. What a strange thing memory is and what strange things we d...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYI find myself playing Cassandra to all your prospective failures which I have foreseen in the set of your face and the way you talk, which I saw in the swing of your step like the swing of an axe. But believe me, I know my history, and I believe in dodging patterns I know that words are smoke a...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYthere is something I don’t trust in this face that used to be mine, this epitaph for what I was that taps insistently against the inside of the glass (perhaps the past is leaking through and I just want to stop it up in some old bottle in the sand, toss it to the ocean with a note so it will...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYOh, please don't take my glare that trapped and hurt and baleful stare too personally, I mean— it's not your fault they feed me poison peanuts every day, not your fault I suffocate on my own s*** in here— no, I'm not mad at you, standing there outside my zoo watching me wi...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYIf I wanted another person to smile at, and nod to, and lie to, to hate secretly within the poison cage of my chest, I probably would not have picked you. But then, that’s just one less-traveled road on the bleak night highways of my head lit up by pointless neon signs and warehouse fronts ...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYDown. That is the name of every score you make in football and also the general direction in which my life moves. My mood, how many hours of sleep I get, how much I resist the way I feel about you— and I tend to move in spirals. We are different, so different, and yet we move the same. ...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYMy head is cracking like a nut. I thought there would be more in there; there’s not. It’s just an empty shell I filled with dreams; an empty shell, it seems. It seems they’re squeezing oh so tight on me— my shell’s so thin, like broken shards of glass. I’m glass. I shatter fast....
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYmy sister’s chemistry lab is on the dresser. the vials and bottles make a sort of stuttering lifeline and what’s in them? hair of dog, eye of newt? heart of girl? one wonders. I wish she would cap her damn nail polish— the harsh, annoying scent interrupts my alchemy of dreams. and yet ...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYI am drowning in my own gall can't breathe for the acid, my xylophone ribs bubble, rotting my skin is gone. my lips gape— Clementine drowning in her own bitter— Or better, Ophelia with rotted stems in her flowing floating hair— but my heart still stammers, staggers, let me beat, ...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYjust— if we were to go, we would go quickly brightly burst against the wall which we would then blow back with all our force— let destruction be our postscript let them know we stood and fell for something that we dragged them down with us if we were to go, we would go up in flames be...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYoh, and you don't tie my tongue – you freeze it you frame it in a box, like amber I imagine a wide-eyed child at my exhibit: “Mommy, can I touch?” “No, dear. You'll damage it.” but can't you hear my blood? I breathe, I promise you I live I am not amber, I am blood am flesh am gut...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYI am tired, I have a math test tomorrow, and I am translating English back to Johnny Bunin. Johnny is a Russian kid from my high school, for whom English is a second and secondary language, he does not understand such sentences as “the distinguishing characteristic of popular culture is its c...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYmy thoughts are not here they are blackbirds singing in the dead of night but wings don’t mend so easy my wings don’t fly so straight not anymore not since you clipped the tips and tripped me up and now I’m flying so off course. where did home go? I could have sworn that yesterday...
- Poetry > Free VerseBy Elena M., New York, NYI have always thought spiders elegant creatures they hang in the balance. never low enough for their prey to see, never high enough not to catch a bug that’s crafty. I want to be like the spider, but how can tiny threads hold each piece of dirt or leaf that blows in with the wind? w...
