Thomas Alva Edison Memorial Park
I Pads and punks skim a flat, reeded pond. A crane flashes from the crux of kneeling trees: a handkerchief in an upper side of suit, watchful. The water is not at all deep. The lightbulb tower struggles to pull above heaps of lost leaves. Its base wilts in filth of swamp. One eye, cloaked with foam, between highways, looking close: the lake is seeded by black plastic. It was filled once by hose. Looking close: the flurry of cranes is one crane. It is one exhaust-filled lily. A light poised in absolute balance between the heart flaps of one drab but drifting lilypad. Eggshell plumed open. Open mouth. Some turtles drown when it rains. Look up, amazed, mouth open. II Someone is not watching. Someone around and decent is not in the middle. Someone is close and specific and fervent about not coming a step more towards. There are four feet up to the knees in marsh. Two sets of lips touching, pausing, pressure closer. Someone outside sees these bodies and turns away, turns again. III Lilyroot filaments a hundred thrown- thread anchors drift off the rafters and are coated with electric, gleaming algae. There are streetlights and there are stars. Cranes, at night, kick and bat the light from the lake. The park lies blown and burst each morning. The lovers roll from the leaves, covered, winged, fingers tangled. Someone inflates as they stumble toward sunup.
Masters Of DecimalsWe are two beans sprouting at the neck when the world arrives. It's the anemone's hour of every stretch and we knock heads by mistake: awake with cheek full of saliva, xylophone of brine in stomach. Having mastered decimals watching Adult Math on television, we bumped into sleep itself. Had our detaching dreams and you were living things I wouldn't dream. Has it been this way for long? We tug and roll toward each only other. Our bed envelope. We have our terms, we have our calculus, and we have our calculus in terms of shells. Not hardened nor coated, but cloaked without in the ocean's sine. The moon rolls us into one conch room. Mollusk long gone. We curl around the helix. One long lick what we are. I give you one long lick. Our feelers emerge from our collar which is also our socks. Still in bed, set in our places, we are right (as the phone roars in our ears) against each other, tenths, hundredths
The Sanitarium of Chunchon
I am sick so much, people call me hospital.
In the lightless mine, surrounded by jade,
I stretch my tongue until it uproots,
catch mineral sweat, taste fossils,
certain my circulation blushes.
Flaps of capillaries finally regular.
I rest from travel. I
am kicked in the head
by a woman with a liver
ballooned, diluted, fluid tomb.
Outside her body it
is seen dissolving.
Her husband plies her buttons
unpeels the blouse, and places jade
shards in orbits on the skin
of her belly and breasts. When she breathes
the pieces tremble
then remeet her,
edging between bones,
all pointing towards the center.
In my plane I cleave clouds:
A shoulder from the arm.
I hate that I have come here.
My blood at least
is moving. I gather stones for the man
and hand them to his hand. We dress her chest
with unstrung, evenly-spaced jewels.
A fit of coughs. She wakes the lid of her
The man is her hanging cloud.
She is the acid soil of a temporary forest.
Sarah McCann was a Writing Fellow at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop and has been published in such journals as The Bennington Review, Acrturus, Mortar Magazine, The South Dakota Review, and Hanging Loose. Her poetry has also appeared in Thom Tammaro’s anthology, Visiting Frost: Poems Inspired by the Life and Work of Robert Frost and an anthology from the Academy of American Poets, New Voices. Her translations from the Modern Greek into English have been recognized by the Fulbright Foundation, and a book of her translations of Maria Laina was recently published by World Poetry Books.