a found poem, after Giannina Braschi
Madmen fear no moon, fear no fire.
Burns of flesh are poetry. Madmen’s wounds are poetry.
Salt is for fish, salt is for
death, the poem is not among the dead. Remember, but don’t write it.
among cats, thief among dogs, man among women, woman among men,
blasphemous toward religion, fed up with poverty.
Don’t let her find you, hide. Disregard her, ignore her, forsake her. no
touch her wounds, she’ll scorn you. Backaway. Scorn the poem. Develop
without her. Give him the necessary distance.
insult her for not having written with power. Deride him from his dreams from her,
Take the poem from his belly from her.
Sleep beside him, but don’t take your eyes off her. Listen to what he tells you in
Descend with her into hell, climb its streets, burn within her history. there
are no names, no history.
I can’t do anything but bash her against a rock. I can’t do anything but
hug her. I can’t do anything but insult her dreams of her, and he can’t do
anything but open the poem for me, just a crack, half-said, in silence,
to keep distant, to keep
silent, to appear barefoot. And she couldn’t do anything
couldn’t do anything but eternalize
And poetry is nowhere
disappears through the trapdoor, escapes with the fire that
burns her and dissolves in water.
BEE LB is an array of letters, bound to impulse; a writer creating delicate connections. they have called any number of places home; currently, a single yellow wall in Michigan. they have been published in Revolute Lit, After the Pause, and Roanoke Review, among others. they are the 2022 winner of the Bea Gonzalez Prize for Poetry. they are a poetry reader for Capsule Stories. their portfolio can be found at twinbrights.carrd.co