She travels the world, storms the Venice Biennale, exhibits at the Guggenheim, Tate, Pompidou – you name it, parties with the grimy glitterati in LA, Madrid, São Paulo, breaks a Sotheby’s sale record and dazzles the fawning curators and collectors at every chandeliered benefit dinner.
Tag: poem
ONE POEM – Nora Nadjarian
I covered my eyes and my
tears tasted of metal.
COMFORT FOODS // After the surgery my body longs for by Janet Bi Li Chan
gluey congee cooked with
yellow ginger
salted pork
thousand-year-old eggs
constantly stirred to make sure
it doesn’t stick to the bottom
COMFORT FOODS // A Tamalada by M.A. Dubbs
Mom’s in charge and tells us to watch how it’s done,
tucking and folding
until she holds above our heads, like a baptized child,
our exemplar tamale
“Just like that!” ¡Perfecto!
ONE POEM – Italo Ferrante
the sound of sliced cabbages
shadows painted on the floor
brick façades & blunt gables
a swarm of rats follow a lone woman
wherever she sleepwalks
all bedsheet ladders lead to you
TWO POEMS – Salvatore Difalco
You reached for the branch
without looking at me as I
signalled you to back away,
to veer away from the tree,
where a snake in full makeup
had hit its mark, awaiting a cue.
COMFORT FOODS // He becomes my child by Sarah Terkaoui
We pass plates of kawage, kibbeh, moutabal
between us around the semi-circle of table.
ONE POEM — Terence Dooley
Limonero Moon I had a sour thought, as if I bitinto a lemon, and the bitter mistsettled on my naked eye like dewor vinaigrette: the red eye weptand suppurated, pitying itself.I was a thought ungrateful, a thought sharpand zestless, pithy: what had given methe pip? The cloudy juice ran down my cheek. As in your…
TWO POEMS – Jim Lloyd
Peregrine has put them up;
one, against one thousand. They
need eyes in the back of their head.
His eyes, forwards only, burning
on the brown-gold and white
pulsating flock.
COMFORT FOODS // Khichuri by Jhilam Chattaraj
When monsoon Gods claim mid-day skies,
mortals yearn for the aromas of the celestial kitchen.
ONE POEM – Clare Starling
And here I am, unsure of my value
Crushing myself through the doors
Ice and dirt crumbling from me
Leaving meltwater on the mat
ONE POEM – Elizabeth Gibson
like you are the aurora borealis, a thirsty balloon,
wanting and worthy of more air, ready to gorge
on forest fruits, and salt and garlic, and cinnamon,
like you are every season and its harvest
Porridge 