By Mai Der Vang
For Pos Moua
What is the name for an antelope
who grazes inside a dream
then vanishes into the
What is the face
for refurbishing grammar
at each comma’s lip.
Whose identity never
remembers the shape of beige.
What is the word
for how to conjure
the sigh of a line hushed
beneath the flap of a thousand
What is the body of a
garden where a crescent
despairs, drifts beneath
the melt of amber.
The season is always growing
out its hooves.
of your leaving is not larger
than the forest of your arrival.
To make you a noun forever.
A loss of you
cannot be equal to the loss of you.
Source: Poetry (July 2017)
More By This Poet
For the Nefarious
From a recessed hollow
Rumble, I unearth as a creature
Conceived to be relentless.
Depend on me to hunt you
Until you find yourself
Counting all the uncorked
Nightmares you digested.
I will let you know the burning
Endorsed by the effort of
Matches. And you will claw
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The Last Word
I am a door of metaphor
waiting to be opened.
You’ll find no lock, no key.
All are free to enter, at will.
Simply step over the threshold.
Remember to dress for travel, though.
Visitors have been known
to get carried away.Illustration by Shadra Strickland
The Racist Bone
I know this is a real thing, because
When I was a kid, my big sister took me
To the Capitol Theater, in my hometown
Of Rochester, NY,
And there was a movie that afternoon,
The Tingler, which starred Vincent Price,
And what I remember best...
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the world is about to end and my grandparents are in love
still, living like they orbit one another,
my grandfather, the planet, & grandma, his moon assigned
by some gravitational pull. they have loved long enough
for a working man to retire. grandma says she’s not tired,
Migration is derived from the word “migrate,” which is a verb defined by Merriam-Webster as “to move from one country, place, or locality to another.” Plot twist: migration never ends. My parents moved from Jalisco, México to Chicago in 1987....
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I want to put down what the mountain has awakened.
My mouthful of grass.
My curious tale. I want to stand still but find myself moved patch by patch.
There's a bleat in my throat. Words fail me here. Can you understand? I...
Whenever you see a tree
how many long years
this tree waited as a seed
for an animal or bird or wind or rain
to maybe carry it to maybe the right spot
where again it waited months for seasons to change
until time and temperature were fine enough to...