by Mark Bibbins, Editor
Today in the poetry section; two new poems by Kimberly Grey, of the fine borough of Queens.
To Grieve in Other Verbs
Tie the ribbon around yourself & see how long it holds. You are alive
& have just begun to wrestle. There are other ways to fly. You’re trying
to marry human & loss, trying to shape & peel the wound. Find a place
to house large things. The walrus lost its hands to evolution, so it taught
itself to roll. Now, you hover over the earth. You’re barely. The ground
did soften & forgive & still, you’re winter. There’s no shame in wanting
to be useful again. You yo-yo & furl. You dress in other people’s clothes.
And the light? It can not tell you from a hermit or horsefly. Today in
Manhattan, not a single person died. How’s that for hope? You must
understand the history of loss did not begin with you. You’ve got to spit
out this thing that you chew & chew. To hurt is a way to love, I thought
Only a Moon to Soup Her
Improper you could say, the way we use light
to awe each other. But there, a waxing gibbous
haught in the sky and her on the bed, full
and waist-ful. It is wrong to think that only
a fish could glow like this. We are like
Schenectady when Edison arrived, a center
of energy and brightness. And don’t forget
either, her hand against the pane. If the moon
were wrong side out and halved maybe the earth
would be hotter than us. But seven swoons
and sighs later, she melts into sweet broth.
Oh, of all things floating and how can it float?
The moon hangs outside the world and we let it
into our lives. Lunatic, I say. Guppy, Guppy.
Clean up this light. We’re filthy.
Kimberly Grey’s poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Linebreak, The Brooklyn Review, DIAGRAM, and Opium. She lives in Queens and will be teaching contemporary poetry at Adelphi University next year.
You can reach the editors at email@example.com.