Poetry by Devon Brock.
A note,scribbled in deliriumtells more than a pottered trope. So, here, in a moment of tyranny,I will say, and with all fervententropy, that I am dying. I cannot take your hand,your breath, your sorrow, I cannot stand on a wispof love, like some greatSlambini, born to the rope,born to the pole. If you need a... Continue Reading →
You found a pinky in the woodpile,underneath some wet leaves.You brought it back to the house,hairless and blind, shivering.Satch said it wouldn’t survive an hour,without its mom, without its nest,but you gave it a name, cupped it in your palm, drew milkinto a paper towel, and it suckled,briefly. And in one minute seizure,it was gone,... Continue Reading →
I will tell you what I saw,when my eyes first opened. I will tell you how,in the first recollection,all things come to be: I was three years old,sitting on the floor,holding a blanket. I was sitting on the floorholding a pale blue blanket. I was spinning a top. I was spinning a topwhile sitting alone,... Continue Reading →
Venus,the vivacious fool,giddy with the huntchased the sunlike a loose balloonover the treetops,over the long bare rise,the string,just out of reach. And in the east,brazen with a honed moonrisen, Saturn, Jupiter, Mars,one by one, eachastride a saddle of cloud. That is what I sawthrough my kitchen windowslast night, as the dog slept;as my wife twitched... Continue Reading →
This is a chair.It is oak, and the joints are loose —they pop. But the stain is pristine. And this is a chair:snow and cherry,they fall — these blossoms. And this is a chair —the spillway humsin the windbreak. This is a table —cherry and threepheasant smudge the rise. And this is a table:dry shoes... Continue Reading →
Nobody cried for Monday,turned thirteen, born badThey saydragged up by the hairby the neck They sayshove it in our faces They saywag it like villain like mangelike toxinspat clean outta Sabbath Monday moon is doll moondead eye slim moonblack marble moontarot moon Day of wandsDay of swordsDay of cups hanged menand charged women The docket’s... Continue Reading →
A proper stir fry demandsten thousand precise cuts. And yet,I‘ve never been shownhow to oil a stone. I’ve never stood, scallionon a stool, trancedand low angled on novaculite, as a master sheer-hummeda blade — silent in rote osmosis — the preparation, not one of cups and fat,not one of bird chilis and ginger,not one of... Continue Reading →
Approach the window.Let one skittish robin triggera flock. Starlings, juncoes, jays,a few gaunt sparrows will allupon a shadow split, as ifamong them a hawk had slipped. It is morning again. Shake offyour red-tail night as they —with chittered alarm, a fury of wings,and all that vexed your harried sleep,as you stare through a window,will flee... Continue Reading →
no-one hears red as you your singe is not my singebut all things burn but if you’re willingif you’re willingto speak into tonguesall yellow and viper orange and if I too am willingmay I crouch there before youfuel to fuelbreath to breath smoke unto nothingthat both we may burnthat both we may blue Image: JR... Continue Reading →
