Wednesday, March 23, 2022




What does the poet call

a loss of words?

She calls it widest pupil.

They call it skewered sight.

How precise the nerves

that bear the toll of language.

Once there were stories

I didn't want true about me,

but here I am, twisted

with appetite. My mother

said I was a curious child.

She meant it as a gift.

Pirate moon, the

rapture of deep sleep,

build me a fortress

for my mantle.


Carmen Giménez Smith

Cruel Futures

City Lights 2018