July/Aug 2021 • Vol. XLIII No. 4 Poetry |

Postcards to M.

After Itaru Sasaki’s “Phone of the Wind” (a glass phone booth he built on a hilltop to call a dead loved one) That you have grown still enough to write to. Or to be left alone—to be left alone. A few hours from here, a field of poppies so red I want to be cut. Stain the seams, tear myself apart. That place so close to the end of a song. In the pause, just afterward, the silence rushing in. Here is my mind, here is my mind (tilted into my hands). What kind of loneliness is this, kissing every finger? To your lost room: all pictures of wildflowers. To your lost room: honey poured on your tongue by someone you love. Silence, thick as frosting, in my mouth. Then the music of your name. A place to tell you something, to tell myself. I tried to call you in the dream but I could not dial correctly. I could not die correctly. In a dark-gold dress, the madness has gone quiet. A memory of your face as radiant anxiety. Opening a series of boxes, and inside the last, s

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知 / Know

By Paisley Rekdal

After Itaru Sasaki’s “Phone of the Wind” (a glass phone booth he built on a hilltop to call a dead loved one) That you have grown still enough to write […]

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