Potluck

 

T H I S    W E E K

Poems by Jessie Janeshek

 

Two Poems by Nate Cabral

 

Preacher

 

The sound of the subway seeping

up through metal grates like

coffee steam —

 

I slip on the pavement and pretend

that it was meant to be,

 

thinking to myself

This place will ruin me.

 

The snow is snow

melting on my boots

and carving out a place for

itself in my soles.

 

Tourists stand pointing up towards

nothing.

 

March comes and I

am spring once again.

 

Breathing hurts me when I think

too much about it,

 

So I collapse on a bed that is

moss-colored

and stare into heaven.

 

 

 

I am alive with this

 

Being in love, you

will tell whoever softly asks,

 

Am I separated from your body and your smile 

to become a puppet in a dream? 

Oh I mean:

 

entirely having, in my careful

careful arms, created this at length

inexcusably, this pleasure—you go

from several

 

persons: Believe me that strangers arrive

when I have kissed you into darkness,

that since and if you disappear

myselves ask solemnly

 

Life, the question — how do I drink or dream or smile

and how do I prefer this face to another and

why do I weep or eat or sleep — what does the whole intend?

 

They wonder. Oh and they cry to be, or not to be,

that I am alive with this absurd 

fraction in its lowest terms

 

is the only victory I have seen so far.

 

 

 

 

Nate Cabral lives in Brooklyn and is the marketing assistant at a book publisher. He likes being paid to write but will do it for free if necessary.