Shira Dentz
a suit a suit makes
yesterday thinking about the obese mother with her kid who couldn’t fit
his arms around her and now that she lost weight he can, and how some kids never
hug their mothers,
how some mothers don’t like their kids’ hugs.
yes the green tree is like a feather
not sure why i’m keeping the plastic grocery bag on the seat beside me in my car. i usually trash
the trash. what exactly is comforting about this nude-colored plastic bag? what place is it
holding? i don’t even remember what was in it, so it’s not debris from any significant occasion
or person
remember how the sun set there? and i could just go out whenever. sit on the bench and watch
for dolphin fins. the fish that jumped up--forgot their name, begins with m
a little windy here, movement. a breeze, i guess
how the wind tilted the palm leaves, like little heads of hair. slights, slights.
dry gnarled branches out here hooks crooks net thrush whispers i don’t even think you’re
majestic anymore. you’re not even indigenous. i probably should close the window because a bird
or bugs could fly through but i can’t stay here without some air, from the outside
instead of moving expanse of water changing with wind and sunlight, these salmon-colored
mountains. clay, well salmon makes them sound prettier. they’re dumps of earth. and the smell
here--combination of paint and don’t know what else. when clouds block the sun, i like the
dimness
the tree that caterpillars feasted on, their yellow leaves, turning into yellow butterflies, electric,
like fireflies. and the gray clouds heralding monsoon
muffle, ruffle, muffler
my father always ruffling in the background, a ruffle I muffle.
it occurs to me that validation is a form of belonging.
desperate for a form, line drawn, to contain me in infinity; nature, after all.
belonging is form
the pause between branches
to alleviate a flowering -crickets breathing in and out sun shading more red
all predicated on a change of light some alive (flowers) others dying
April likes light and in her office keeps a candle glowing inside an orange shell, mimicking a pumpkin.
Speaking of, Ava loves Halloween. She starts decorating her office in mid-September, inserting black
spiders, orange pillows, candy, and other stuff here and there along with lots of plants: you kinda have to
look closely to spot the Halloween theme.
mix the body of things tie, tie, branches curling. one has to roll with a different kind of light.
lamp at my back twins in the glass window. sky tranquilizes into darker powder blue. pinkorange sun a
tongue hot then open the window
my father’s going to die in not toolong sort of like the way the sky darkens, the speed at which.
trees turn black jewish new year and yom kippur lit a candle for my bro. the flame is the most
closeness i have now, soul to soul. feels like sabbath candles the tie of family way ago. the pause
between branches
hormones & all kinds of things in the dark with the wind, voice where there’s nothing but rocks
and trees. black a fabric and there’s nothing to do except live.
drama of sun’s past
moon’s startling clear crisp crystal. sweating. I
earth turning and you think still. we’re on the side of space not facing the sun. there are things for
decoration that have no use at all like the way each window is divided into rectangles. planes more
prominent in the night sky. heat crests again.
pines, spiders. swarm of blue crystal laps up an ocean and you, signor, are a chump. nothing
universal. the blue and its tongue wave at me, circling and smiling to itself.
vanilla to yearn vanilla the sticks out there for me, not you. take a peek. whistle. catch up. show
your stuff. my gut turns back. eyeing you. rip up, bird, streaking cross the sky. lever. plexiglass.
strumming away. pick a dot. glance a note. strip the fabric there’s nothing new out there left to
my devices my mind. the perfection of dates.
the light coughing up a storm of pollen cloud whisps reaching for the moon. drag, drag, white
branches like white hairs. out for a walk and then back in. tufts of pine needles like nests. ghosts,
yes, inhabited by ghosts of my family. don’t want to pull that sheet out because don’t see it ever
ending.
flickering dim fire my bro visiting longer than usual, 2 days. wax threatening to drown the wick.
still going, an infant’s breath. sky mauve in back of hunkering trees. this morning the short trees
felt like children; had to remind myself the presences were just trees.
how does one not think there’s a stain
all the crickets asleep beetles wide-eyed
static we call it. a child nearing 60. ringold. hot, parched, freezing.
you’re mistaken little butterfly with the comatose hat one can see your cellophane and tuba
sticking out forever like a twig but amigo take a cadillac to your nearest store and burn some
burritos take that, that, and that. squirrel head. so tired again. want to see colors, summer ones.
stop loss from boring a hole
rainbow glare, prism in the night above my glasses
the moon white bone it’ll keep there relatively immortal.
Rain
I like the gray outside, not sure if I’d prefer rain. Meanwhile this industrial
strength lawn mower buzzing outside.
Don’t want to scratch on wall. Sunny
now, don’t want that. The way gray affects. Lawn mower breathing.
Hard thing to say about my mother and her dying.Won’t be able to call her
and get this feeling.
Two birds cross each other in the sky.
Have no meaning or use to my mother. The grass always has to be cut here.
__________
Shira Dentz is the author of two books, black seeds on a white dish (Shearsman, 2011), and door of thins (CavanKerry Press, 2013), a hybrid of prose, poetry, and visual elements and a tale that unfolds in a psychotherapist's and a state prosecutor's office and the mind of the poet regarding it all. She is also the author of two chapbooks, Leaf Weather (Tilt Press/Shearsman), and Sisyphusina (forthcoming from Red Glass Books). Her writing has appeared widely in journals including The American Poetry Review, The Iowa Review, and New American Writing, and featured online at The Academy of American Poets' site ({Poets.org), NPR, Poetry Daily, and Verse Daily. Her awards include an Academy of American Poets’ Prize, the Poetry Society of America’s Lyric Poem and Cecil Hemley Memorial Awards, Electronic Poetry Review’s Discovery Award, and Painted Bride Quarterly’s Poetry Prize. A graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, she has a Ph.D. in Creative Writing and Literature from the University of Utah, and is currently Drunken Boat's Reviews Editor and Lecturer in Creative Writing at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. Find her online at shiradentz.com.
These pieces in this issue are part of a larger work-in-progress that’s a hybrid of poetry, prose, and visual elements that's centered around the subject of female aging.
a suit a suit makes
yesterday thinking about the obese mother with her kid who couldn’t fit
his arms around her and now that she lost weight he can, and how some kids never
hug their mothers,
how some mothers don’t like their kids’ hugs.
yes the green tree is like a feather
not sure why i’m keeping the plastic grocery bag on the seat beside me in my car. i usually trash
the trash. what exactly is comforting about this nude-colored plastic bag? what place is it
holding? i don’t even remember what was in it, so it’s not debris from any significant occasion
or person
remember how the sun set there? and i could just go out whenever. sit on the bench and watch
for dolphin fins. the fish that jumped up--forgot their name, begins with m
a little windy here, movement. a breeze, i guess
how the wind tilted the palm leaves, like little heads of hair. slights, slights.
dry gnarled branches out here hooks crooks net thrush whispers i don’t even think you’re
majestic anymore. you’re not even indigenous. i probably should close the window because a bird
or bugs could fly through but i can’t stay here without some air, from the outside
instead of moving expanse of water changing with wind and sunlight, these salmon-colored
mountains. clay, well salmon makes them sound prettier. they’re dumps of earth. and the smell
here--combination of paint and don’t know what else. when clouds block the sun, i like the
dimness
the tree that caterpillars feasted on, their yellow leaves, turning into yellow butterflies, electric,
like fireflies. and the gray clouds heralding monsoon
muffle, ruffle, muffler
my father always ruffling in the background, a ruffle I muffle.
it occurs to me that validation is a form of belonging.
desperate for a form, line drawn, to contain me in infinity; nature, after all.
belonging is form
the pause between branches
to alleviate a flowering -crickets breathing in and out sun shading more red
all predicated on a change of light some alive (flowers) others dying
April likes light and in her office keeps a candle glowing inside an orange shell, mimicking a pumpkin.
Speaking of, Ava loves Halloween. She starts decorating her office in mid-September, inserting black
spiders, orange pillows, candy, and other stuff here and there along with lots of plants: you kinda have to
look closely to spot the Halloween theme.
mix the body of things tie, tie, branches curling. one has to roll with a different kind of light.
lamp at my back twins in the glass window. sky tranquilizes into darker powder blue. pinkorange sun a
tongue hot then open the window
my father’s going to die in not toolong sort of like the way the sky darkens, the speed at which.
trees turn black jewish new year and yom kippur lit a candle for my bro. the flame is the most
closeness i have now, soul to soul. feels like sabbath candles the tie of family way ago. the pause
between branches
hormones & all kinds of things in the dark with the wind, voice where there’s nothing but rocks
and trees. black a fabric and there’s nothing to do except live.
drama of sun’s past
moon’s startling clear crisp crystal. sweating. I
earth turning and you think still. we’re on the side of space not facing the sun. there are things for
decoration that have no use at all like the way each window is divided into rectangles. planes more
prominent in the night sky. heat crests again.
pines, spiders. swarm of blue crystal laps up an ocean and you, signor, are a chump. nothing
universal. the blue and its tongue wave at me, circling and smiling to itself.
vanilla to yearn vanilla the sticks out there for me, not you. take a peek. whistle. catch up. show
your stuff. my gut turns back. eyeing you. rip up, bird, streaking cross the sky. lever. plexiglass.
strumming away. pick a dot. glance a note. strip the fabric there’s nothing new out there left to
my devices my mind. the perfection of dates.
the light coughing up a storm of pollen cloud whisps reaching for the moon. drag, drag, white
branches like white hairs. out for a walk and then back in. tufts of pine needles like nests. ghosts,
yes, inhabited by ghosts of my family. don’t want to pull that sheet out because don’t see it ever
ending.
flickering dim fire my bro visiting longer than usual, 2 days. wax threatening to drown the wick.
still going, an infant’s breath. sky mauve in back of hunkering trees. this morning the short trees
felt like children; had to remind myself the presences were just trees.
how does one not think there’s a stain
all the crickets asleep beetles wide-eyed
static we call it. a child nearing 60. ringold. hot, parched, freezing.
you’re mistaken little butterfly with the comatose hat one can see your cellophane and tuba
sticking out forever like a twig but amigo take a cadillac to your nearest store and burn some
burritos take that, that, and that. squirrel head. so tired again. want to see colors, summer ones.
stop loss from boring a hole
rainbow glare, prism in the night above my glasses
the moon white bone it’ll keep there relatively immortal.
Rain
I like the gray outside, not sure if I’d prefer rain. Meanwhile this industrial
strength lawn mower buzzing outside.
Don’t want to scratch on wall. Sunny
now, don’t want that. The way gray affects. Lawn mower breathing.
Hard thing to say about my mother and her dying.Won’t be able to call her
and get this feeling.
Two birds cross each other in the sky.
Have no meaning or use to my mother. The grass always has to be cut here.
__________
Shira Dentz is the author of two books, black seeds on a white dish (Shearsman, 2011), and door of thins (CavanKerry Press, 2013), a hybrid of prose, poetry, and visual elements and a tale that unfolds in a psychotherapist's and a state prosecutor's office and the mind of the poet regarding it all. She is also the author of two chapbooks, Leaf Weather (Tilt Press/Shearsman), and Sisyphusina (forthcoming from Red Glass Books). Her writing has appeared widely in journals including The American Poetry Review, The Iowa Review, and New American Writing, and featured online at The Academy of American Poets' site ({Poets.org), NPR, Poetry Daily, and Verse Daily. Her awards include an Academy of American Poets’ Prize, the Poetry Society of America’s Lyric Poem and Cecil Hemley Memorial Awards, Electronic Poetry Review’s Discovery Award, and Painted Bride Quarterly’s Poetry Prize. A graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop, she has a Ph.D. in Creative Writing and Literature from the University of Utah, and is currently Drunken Boat's Reviews Editor and Lecturer in Creative Writing at Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute. Find her online at shiradentz.com.
These pieces in this issue are part of a larger work-in-progress that’s a hybrid of poetry, prose, and visual elements that's centered around the subject of female aging.