for my grandma, whose Korean name I still can’t remember

Even a ghost that eats and dies again will have better color.

How hungry we must have been to die in the ocean just to pull at its weeds, dry them, soak the leaves in sesame oil.

Bleed our hands for not even a tongueful of meat from an ungiving shell.

A bird that cries at night cries because it mourns a lover.

A bird that cries in the morning cries because it is hungry.

How do you eat like a king?

Hang the remains of last week’s fish so it sways above the table.

Have a bite of rice. Chew ten times. Look at the fish. Chew ten times. Repeat.

Give thanks for anything you can put in your mouth.

Su Cho

i.

I say blue when morning begins
And indigo when the night sky
Hardens over us, pinned with stars.

I say moon when its shape appears
In the disappearing light. And I say
Hollow when I look into my hand.

So much taken for granted now
That I am chased by shadows
When once I noticed only

What was solid and complete.
I dream of Adam’s voice.
Was that a panting sound or a sigh?

ii.

At first it was head to toe
Until I wanted his breath on mine.
We examined each other,

Like a folded-out map of ourselves,
Fingering, puzzled by
The differences between us.

We tried it this way and that,
I was the impatient one, I have to say.
Strange, we both had a bright idea

At the same time. After that, it seemed
As though we were created to couple
In this sweet new way. It was hard

To do anything else sometimes,
So the trees suffered, burdened
Down with fruit, and the fields,

And some pale animals that emerged
Now and then, and the snakes
Hanging corkscrew from low branches.

iii.

I saw God watching Adam. I saw
The eyes popping out of God’s head
At the sight of him

As he fucked with what we later learned
Was wild abandon. I sympathized
With God’s jealousy, his pain,

But wished he had not
Displayed such obvious self-pity.
You see, he loved Adam.

Once I watched as
They fondled each other’s hair.
From my vantage-point in the tree

I then saw the two of them
Wondering how they might
Do what we had done. I have to say

It was obvious to me.
Odd how they couldn’t work it out.
Nothing bothered Adam, but God

Was not pleased, to put it mildly.
I learned that he would have been
Happy to be with either of us. Or

Even with both. He hated being left out.
That was the thing. I liked it
When he licked my neck.

iv.

But, in the end, I bewildered God
More than all creation. We spoke,
But he was never a good listener,

Preferring the sound
Of his own voice
Even when he whispered.

Since he wanted us so much
The decision he made
That we should leave

And that he would be happier
Alone made no sense.
But try telling him that.

v.

I laughed later
When I found out the etymology
Of the word ‘paradise’. In all reality,

Paradise was nowhere much; we were
Baked by the sun. Days were long
And there was nothing to do at night.

vi.

Mornings here are lovely, on the other hand,
And the world’s words, I never tire of them –
Of Mans First Disobedience, and the Fruit

Would I like to return, you ask,
Just once for a short visit
To re-live old memories?

No, but I would like yesterday to come
Again, wash itself over us,
Fondle us with its shredded beauty.

vii.

In his temper that day, when God told
Us what time would mean, I understood.
I saw the days longing for each other

In a future ready to forget. I alone,
I saw, would register each one,
Like something to be forgiven

And then held up, a bright example,
As we were, when we came into the world,
And lived our disappearing days.

viii.

Adam died two years ago, a night
When the moon was sickle-shaped
And thunder-clouds had cleared.

I was glad of that. I wanted
Adam’s fading eyes to see the sky,
Linger on the thought of what we tasted,

A beyond-place that had no end, that might
Have bored others, but we tolerated it
Because what else did we know?

What else do I know now?
I know that God learned to repeat
The word regret ad infinitum

Until silence fell. Then he changed.
I wish I could comfort him,
As the world wears out.

Colm Tóibín

O holy St Agnes, cure me of metaphor!
Make me say exactly what I mean
Without trickery or recourse
To words that are not clear or clean.

O martyr and saint, let life be dull
And make our verses unadorned
And let next year’s poems be plainly full
Of signs that lessons have been learned.

The flowers grow, as appointed, from the soil
And do not paint the meadow with delight.
They wither or get picked, which serves to spoil
Our notion, so mistaken on first sight,

That they are sprightly, dancing in the breeze,
Then taking applause, their heads all bowed.
I swear, in all mention of flowers, these
Rich, false words will never be allowed.

In return, please open heaven’s gate
So I can see what really is
With no sweet terms to mask my fate
To live in true, unsweetened bliss.

Colm Tóibín

I am in Venice,
Dreaming of what

It was like
When painters,

Knew which way
To turn

When they had need
For commissions

Or when they sought
Salvation.

There is fog
In the morning

To cloud our
Spirits,

And then sunlight.
In Venice,

Faces in paintings
Are alive with need,

Not just
The main players

But the others
Who stood by

Hardly caring
Who preached sermons,

Who lived
Or who died.

They were busy,
These figures

At the edges,
And did not often think

About redemption,
Much less about

Salvation.
Their faces

Then, and ours now,
Look as though

We are meant, in fact,
For commerce,

Working out margins,
Rates of return.

It is harder,
As the man said,

To imagine
The end of capitalism

Than the end
Of the world.

We hunger, however,
For glare and splash,

An opening
Of the spirit,

The urgent end of
Anything at all.

In the meantime,
I am waiting

For a boat
To take me

To the sanctity
Of the Salute.

The engine
Of the vaporetto

Is grinding
Towards a silence

Like the very first one,
To be broken

Only when
the end
Of capitalism

And the end
Of the world

Appear on the water,
Pursued by the panting

Populace,
The first laden

Down with contracts,
Anti-trust laws,

Overdraft statements,
Old software.

The second
Filled up

With painters
In possession of the new

Colours that
Will be used

To render finality
In all its garishness.

They join forces
Under the domed sky

As the Giudecca
And the Grand Canal

Meet close to
Where I stand

And flow into each
Other, drink

From the waters of the
Exemplary lagoon.

Colm Tóibín

We boys were marching up to Rodman Hall for supper when he stopped and I bumped into him

He whirled around and pointed at me and touched his lips with his middle finger and slicked it back over his head

I protested

He said yes you touch my butt

I said accident not see

He said not believe you

Before breakfast next morning he saw me watching Gilligan’s Island

He switched the channel

Hey

He laughed

Next morning he did the same thing

I said oh that better thank you

He frowned and pressed the remote

That interesting awesome

Switch switch switch

Then Gilligan’s Island was back on and I said no no not that

He laughed and left Gilligan’s Island on

One time I was in the shower room and a rocket of water slammed into me

Fire extinguisher

I couldn’t see anything except for a baseball cap

It was his cap

I laughed and said more more feel good come on

His last year I was still learning the art of the white cane

Sometimes I got delayed tapping around for landmarks

One night I was tapping between Noyes Hall and Frechette Hall and a boy offered his arm

I didn’t know who until under a lamp I saw a baseball cap

Inside Frechette Hall I thanked him and he smiled

A few minutes later Gary Karow our houseparent came up to me and told me that the bully was so happy that he had helped me

A week before he graduated he grabbed my bag of books while my nose wa buried in a book

As I searched for it he gave the bag back and said that he did it because I wasn’t paying attention

His last words to me before leaving were you take care man

Some years later he drove down to Texas with a friend to help him pick up a pickup truck

On his way back alone it was twilight and still in Texas when he turned off his headlights

He steered into oncoming traffic

A car swerved in time

Another swerved

Then it was a truck which couldn’t swerve and that baseball cap

John Lee Clark

My best friend, a sweet man,
drove all the way from Mankato
when my wife left me. At the door
he stood as tall as I
and we hugged. Then he said,
“Look good you. How manage?
Can’t imagine. If my wife left
for sure gunmyheadshoot will.”
I gave him a don’t-be-silly shove.
Before he left, I could feel him looking
at me. He said that seeing me alone
made him cherish his wife. He did,
but his wife left him anyway
and—well, he did.

John Lee Clark

I love trees that stay
away from me. But when a leafy finger
pokes my eye, I squint.
I’m willing to dismiss it
as an irony. A limb
that knocks my head because I didn’t duck?
That turns my heart into a chainsaw.

John Lee Clark

The trails are filled with fresh snow
Let’s put on your skis and get out
Don’t just sit around and glue to your screen
Put that motherfucking phone down

The food your mom prepared is ready
Don’t make her yell your name out loud
You better get your ass off the couch
Put that motherfucking phone down

The piano is getting lonely and dusty
You have not played a single sound
You need to learn your notes and counts
Put that motherfucking phone down

The laundry is clean and ready to be folded
Straighten out your grumpy face and put on a smile
You need to do some chores around the house
Put that motherfucking phone down

The opportunities won’t last forever
Take advantage of them now
Get up, get out, and do something wild
Put that motherfucking phone down

Donny Trương

I want to begin this story where it ends.
He drops me at the station in the rain before dawn
and says well, should I kiss you goodbye.
His eyebrows rise into the boredom of his body
the way they’d rise in class when someone
suggested Leopold Bloom was homosexual.
All over New Jersey it’s raining. He is speeding
to the train, thinking if he can get me there on time
he will not have to wait, and I do actually mistake
a blurry streetlamp for the moon and nod yes
to the kiss as if he’d offered it. At the end
I’m a helmet of ambivalence. All transparent shield,
all bulletproof bubble, the vast yes and no of pure metal.
In the middle I can’t sleep so I suck on his cock.
It stays limp in my mouth as desire like venom
seeps into the past where I sat on the vast other side
of his desk to talk about my future and his wall
made of books cut a path through the sea back to Ithaca.
Now around us the bodies of sixteen-year-old boys
are asleep on both floors of the dorm and his cock
is a mumbled apology for whatever they did or did not
want from me in the middle of the story as the story
goes: I don’t go to that school anymore, I am as old
as Isabel Archer, Dorothea Brooke, the end
of books. It’s morning, my ticket in hand.

Taije Silverman

This guy I used to know—a friend of mine-my
ex-husband I met at nineteen on a blind

date though I could see by the time
our fried clams had arrived it wasn’t meant

to be—he said time would only
tell—I said meantime I’ll only be

wishing you well but when
the check came he was a different

man—I mean he was my student—or I
his and he was obviously an expert in early

sixth-century anonymous Gaelic poetry
that revolves around a rhyme scheme—

as he explained over the beer we shared illegally
after class—in which changing the placement

of any one word means reducing
the poem to nonsense. He was good

with his head—or hands—or at nothing
but baking bread although when all was said

and done he remained a rabid Catholic
who wanted to ban the word embryo

or he was having an emotional affair
with a pregnant woman and loved jawbreakers

and whether I ran into him at Walmart
or we went intentionally to the river is beside

the point because he was a black hole
which meant not actually on earth and therefore

could only be known as the Dark Lord (his name
was Josh) or the World’s Most Apologetic Liar

or the illustrious co-author of How to Surmise
Then Hypnotize Your Real Mr. Right and we spent

a single night together without technically
inhaling but the divorce still proved undoing

for the children. He was the father
of my dictionary. He was an irreplaceable

rhyme for baby. He was my third
love, my second chance, a trampoline’s notion

of romance. Maybe now, maybe then,
maybe if, or so the end refrains. He was one

of a number of mistakes I made
for which I don’t take blame.

Taije Silverman