Un/non sellable Poem
Let’s make children for
those detention centers,
one more, once more.
In the cells of vapor
a face becomes the other.
The other another.
All return, you know;
only you don’t know
what they look like
A bird on your shower room
window sill stares at you
as if you’re its day’s grain or its genesis.
A Fish Drifted Across The Seas
“During a gunfight,” says the fishmonger
about a scar as long as this country’s map
flashing whenever he dips his head
or lets it upraise against the gloaming’s glory.
We’ve heard that story; ask for it nonetheless.
How a refugee can involve himself
in a skirmish with a cop who has not shot
any subject or any dream featuring his ex.
The fish he sells doesn’t smell fresh always.
We love to purchase from him nonetheless.
Concentration of The Sighs
Fifteen miles from Donna’s house
they store the shadows
split off the fleshes.
Donna feels how her lungs
hold onto every breath nowadays
and how the fixers hike the price
of those inhalers one can hide
in their mitts.
Donna didn’t know fifteen miles from hers
they house the sighs.
Donna didn’t know what tightens a barbwire
inside her chest;
her lungs fists, and nothing is felt inside.
One of those must’ve escaped
to seek a safe place in the neighborhood.
Milk often spills over the brim.
One draws a crucifix and reheats the rest.
The net door swings open to close.
The TV goes on about the politicians
denying the concentration camps.
In Xavier’s virgin words for me
he adopts silence as his wards,
keys to his locutions,
and on the other hand I’ve been learning
his mother tongue.
It rolls out from my mouth like
a barbwire-spell binding us in our places
and feeding us with thoughts to free ourselves;
then I too cerebrate in silence.
Photo © Matthew Friedman