Poem.com Newsletter – Poem of the day


Jennifer Huang

I wear the gown wrong so I can’t be touched.But the doctor, delicate in her asking, asks meTo open. I am not accustomed to this gentle;I crush it. It is summer here. These wallsFluorescent white so light I can feel me burn.The doctor and a body. The vinegarShe puts inside me. I glue a mouthTo this heart. She wants to cut me apart.No, she wants to cut a part from me,Hold cotton until I clot. On the wall:Laughing child splashed by water. I amAware of my heart. I count my blessings:Three missed calls, two mirrors, one bouquet.I am numb. Then I touch some place low.
from the book RETURN FLIGHT Milkweed Editions
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Color image of a fountain pen against a blurred background
“What Novelists Can Learn From Poets”“It felt good to not think about the project I’d been working on for years, but instead to think about the unconventional moments I found in poetry: how few words could be used to arrive at something weighty; the distinct imagery, the narrative turns, and the way bright clarity often crashes like a wave at the end, leaving behind something frothing and alive in its wake.”via LITHUB
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Cover of Wanda Coleman's pamphlet, Art in the Court of the Blue Fag, from Black Sparrow Press
What Sparks Poetry:Dana Levin on Wanda Coleman’s “The Woman and Her Thang”“Standing at the magazine rack at Beyond Baroque, I opened Coleman’s chapbook at random and read: ‘She kept it in a black green felt-lined box.’ Ten monosyllabs—how I loved saying them, each one a kind of floating stone in the mouth—introducing the speaker’s ‘thang’: seductive and dangerous, wreaking havoc on her love life.”
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