This selection, chosen by Guest Editor Jordi Alonso, is from Footnote by Trish Hopkinson, released by Lithic Press in 2017.
In a Room Made of Poetry*
Think how loss pulls language from us until
it swallows everything,
like undiagnosed cancer,
the accumulated past—
less eye, less mouth, less heart.
We had, not much—
thin coffee, thin socks. Here you can
wait, with desire, with
for an open womb. That heart-balm
as hope. The raw
bent—a bowl of fruit
in a language I never knew . . .
without tails, crosses of ts. The autonomous dot of a
blackness answers, There are only ifs.
*found in The Eyes of a Flounder by Laura Hamblin
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