KAILAH FIGUEROA
Alternate Holocenes Where I Am the Maker (and you are still alive)
land spreads / & there is no hilt for hands / to bend mines
Weekly poems, selected by the editors. Featuring new work as well as poems from our rich archives.
land spreads / & there is no hilt for hands / to bend mines
You know nothing of the road out, the one where you will never face your perils
the whale washed up on the beach in monte hermoso, dead
Santa Ana season. Some construction crew up in Sherman Oaks.
Thus ma added grass to her name
the blue sweep of that lyric, calling everything back–
I will never make a child, no matter how many moons with their obligatory nights
is sentience
the wonder of sonar
Suddenly, it felt, everyone was deploying to Africa
Snow cracked beneath
our feet like glass.