Potluck

 

T H I S    W E E K

WATERSLIDES IN AUXILIARY HOSPITAL WASHROOM by Daniel Thompson

 

Three Poems


of those birds
 

from across the top of the roof
of a mildewing 18-story complex
they winged
their ways away
i saw blue with a black pulse

i part me
to see what they see
i unmount a bloated skull
to follow
an aggregation of rovers 

below
tidal parliaments racing
litters of whales
racing
scurrying flickers
and figures

once,
must believe when i tell you
there was a spring so clear on herrenberg
my delusion could not drink its waters 

must be counterfeit
like the arranged rectilinear dunes of our cities
gasping elements hammered into
compounds haunted by force

strange it all is

though still i do turtle strokes
in the air in my sleep

 

 

 

 

take her
 

for you here
lost is being
found

it is for them the traveling more
an unraveling of their materials
a mirror mirroring other
parallels
a loop of seething
dissimilar encounters

eyes peeking from behind shells
like pistachios,
beg for a sowing

like an unterminating arrival
like a taking root, being dug out
until the arms have waned 

and imagine, maybe you are there
still your head,
but the rest of you dipped in fog

“take me with you”
“i don’t know where i live”
says the german lady
carrying katayoun in my belly
grocery bags fissure my palms

i truly hesitate

 

 

 

 

trespassage
 

the ripples in the white walls make structures mind has
divined into realization
appear like the last of the pioneers 

forgetting paper
the pencil weaves fingers into mittens used
for petting the goneby 

a drought of chemical autonomy that manifests
itself in a masquerade that hides
behind axonal tweaks of yous

but Rumi maybe Rum maybe Ruminant
between the fingertip-whirls will tell you
the answer to what has near-dawned fluorescent 

allotment of units of this life for the gathering
of a meal that does not satiate stomach pangs
but rather a square 

what is thought of you is acquisition
what is your make-up is the new harvest
to undress sheath for sheath might be 

at night it is still still outside
it is black without defined coordinates
perhaps that is what will orient us

an unknown a net of comfort

 

 

 


Nina Kamooei is a writer unrooted in the space in-between. She is an Iranian German-born with US citizenship. She has a Master's degree in European Literature, but does not know if she should do her PhD or something else, like Computer Science. She has been published before.