Winter 2001 • Vol. XXIII No. 1 Poetry |

Carried Across

Through vidrio, a riot of birdsong. Whose face the stranger? High cheek bones, stout chin,            skin the color of cantaloupe rind. How continuous, erosions in my grammar. Long negra-azul hair rivering to the ahh of her back. Glackety- grack, a mortar wagon crosses                tile patio.     Black streets, one fruit stand open late: nova of color. Oh nectarial moon, only elsewhere are you called cliché. Lovers entwined            on benches. Low whisper of light night traffic at the park's edge. What if                "we" did not                     presuppose national, ethnic, linguistic affiliation? What word, then, throw at the yapping dog?            Blotting out vision, breathable air, a carbonized foulness     mushrooms behind the bus. Her dress fades        into

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Philosopher’s Stone

By Jorie Graham

Through vidrio, a riot of birdsong. Whose face the stranger? High cheek bones, stout chin,            skin the color of cantaloupe rind. How continuous, erosions in my grammar. Long negra-azul hair […]

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