glitterature for the mobs
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NINA PURO

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Cocktail Recipe with Ghost Transmission
To stop mourning, cut the hair off your forearm & the eyes
          from potatoes & plant them. Cut the condolence card’s heart
out & eat it. It works! Before the glass flew halfway across
          the room, I felt her unlatch. By the time it hit the wall,

the deer in me lay down. Only the LCD screen moved.
          Men will always build their big curves, subdivide the forest,
mow new pigments. I stack shells on top of rocks. Desire grows
          elaborate terraces. The cairns fall while I sleep. The Twitter star’s

plane lands on time. Rib tips are on sale. A ghost
          dismantles his glass house. Tired white people wash
each other & lie with their feet touching. Earlier,
          that was a lie. Each night I will for the dream

where she says goodbye & floats off, beaming.
          Something in me hoped to sink, too. It’s jealous.

Air isn't full or empty, it's just there
As that spring unhinged
its jaw, nobody
trusted thread anymore.

Clouds kept
unstitching.

I can’t interpret
what you say in sleep
if you’re not here.

I know it’s probably sad &
frequently there are dogs
or wolves
or wolf-dogs.

Maybe dusk’s a gift.
Little cherry-meat heart.
It’s still snowing up here

between my shoulder blades.
It’s cruel, isn’t it?

Red knot in the center
of us, frayed.

I know to keep
my enemies closest.
I wrap my arms tighter
around myself.

Night’s a bottle cap screwed on,
off, on again. Thread
of metal. Thread of glass.

Sugar hardening between.
Fallow the chicory.

Fallow the hum
that slides us awake.

We’ve started to suspect the doctor
will never come.

All the Chicken We Haven't Eaten Yet
                                                                 For too long,               I thought we’d still get freckles
                                                    or self-assurance. Let’s all quit                       sports bars, galleries,
                                                                Penn Station, doing favors.                Let’s watch snow
                                                      under streetlamps, argue about                       the color of the sky.
                                                             I don’t mean to go                  acute but there’s these fires
                                               and locusts everywhere. Our clothes              yellowed while time pedaled
                                                    both ways & I pursed my lips             to get OK. Tell me I clean up
                                                              almost-nice. Sure, I’ve                        that habit of losing
                                                                       sleep, proper                nouns,  hours. I smooth
                                                                    my skirt. I’m not sorry                                    my people
                                                                     didn’t summer anywhere                    I learned
                                                              to capsize a sailboat.               I’m not sorry for swimming
                                          away from her.                                    I pick at my nails. How do we who think
                                                               speaking’s useless                   listen better? The entirety
                                                                           of the Tate I couldn’t              stop thinking
                                                                      about sandwiches.                    Looking forward
                                                               to the bday party but mostly               to the snowstorm
                                                                    because: silence.                      I keep remembering
                                                                           faces I thought I’d                  drank enough
                                                                    to erase. I pick the label                      off the bottle.
                                                                             Time’s                         a construct. Fear’s
                                                                          a construct. I keep                   forgetting this.
                                                                    I keep waking up        right before I hit the ground.
                                                                    For years I was asked                         constantly to describe
                                                                         my feelings &              for the record I’m not
                                                      angry. Being able to name                  exactly what shade of awful
                                                            doesn’t fix it. I’m working                 with what I have, ok?
                                                Tell me where your sutures are.          Who you miss. Sure, I’ve never had
                                                             a paid sick day. But guys                    guys much of what
                                                                  I have is you.               We’ve got so much to cackle
                                                                over someday, circled                                     around a table.

 


NINA PURO’s current work addresses rupture and queer precarity. It can be found in Guernica, H_ngm_n, and the PEN American Poetry Series, among others. A member of the Belladonna* Collaborative; author of two forthcoming chapbooks (Argos Books and dancing girl press); and recipient of fellowships from the MacDowell Colony and Syracuse University, Nina cries and works in Brooklyn.
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