body’s contradictions


The Body’s Contradictions
Carlos Drummond de Andrade


As contradições do corpo

Photo by sippakorn yamkasikorn on Unsplash



Fleur Adcock

Half an hour before my flight was called
he walked across the airport bar towards me
carrying what was left of our future
together: two drinks on a tray.

Photo by Jennifer Schmidt on Unsplash





Circe Maia

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Calypso in Paris
Megan Fernandes

It is a hideous November—

even your

takes a blue form.

You are for the new world,

I, for America, today.

Your apartment is cold
and I search your kitchen

for napkins

as you bite into
a late night animal.

You wake

to tell me
about a dream

of us eating out


I want to ask

but don’t.
I have given myself

seven hours of flight

to bring
my halves back

as one—

though the body is a dull metaphor,
won’t quite line up.

Part of me

has already

the other, sits

blows ash off the windowsill

and small curls

of burning paper

for the fruit stands below.

It is a hideous November—

birds glide down the canal,

of city wires

slope like hills, fluid
and tapered

by wind.


with one glance


With One Glance
Charles Simic

That mirror understood everything about me
As I raised the razor to my face.
Oh, dear God!
What a pair of eyes it had!
The eyes that said to me:
Everything outside this moment is a lie.
As I looked out of the window today
At some trees in the yard,
A voice in my head whispered:
Aren’t they something?
Not one leaf among them stirring
In the heat of the afternoon.
Not one bird daring to peep
And make the hand of the clock move again.
Or how about the time when the stormTore down the power lines on our streetAnd I lit a match and caught a glimpseOf my face in the dark windowpane

With my mouth fallen open in surprise
At the sight of one tooth in front
Waiting like a butcher in his white apron
For a customer to walk through his door.
It made me think of the way a hand
About to fall asleep reaches out blindly
And suddenly closes over a fly,
And remains tightly closed,
Listening for a buzz in the room,
Then to the silence inside the fist
As if it held in it an undertaker
Taking a nap inside a new coffin.

Photo by Luis Villasmil on Unsplash

not from this anger


Not From This Anger
Dylan Thomas

Not from this anger, anticlimax after
Refusal struck her loin and the lame flower
Bent like a beast to lap the singular floods
In a land strapped by hunger
Shall she receive a bellyful of weeds
And bear those tendril hands I touch across
The agonized, two seas.
Behind my head a square of sky sags over
The circular smile tossed from lover to lover
And the golden ball spins out of the skies;
Not from this anger after
Refusal struck like a bell under water
Shall her smile breed that mouth, behind the mirror,
That burns along my eyes.

a dusk


A Dusk (from Stones of the Field)
Christian Wiman
How slowly the mountain
takes it in,
like a diagnosis
of darkness.

The consolation
of a continuation
that has nothing to do
with you.

Photo by Daniel Leone on Unsplash