"Am I still a man/ from those fields?"

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Issue 13: Free Form

Issue 12: The Necessary Ear

Issue 11: The Necessary Eye

Issue 10: Out on a Limb

Issue 9: The Missing Body

Issue 8: The Lily

Issue 7: Passages

Issue 6: No More Tears

Sam White

The Saint of Missing Limbs

The saint of missing limbs
wags her finger

and leads me to polish
her den on tiptoes

the thigh's gleaming star.
And I knew monks

as blankets thrown over men
and straggling gray fields

indented and apart.
Am I still a man

from those fields? You are
and always have been

a puddle filling with trees.


To Attraction

The crows' nest has finally flown from the ship
and the ship from its conscription

to list, in age, against our heartbeats
for greenness and homeland.

And we a little bruised and blackened
hover down in future tenses toward

a new triangular age where boots
flow like lava wearying the concourse

and the fountain always beginning
has begun at last beneath balconies

where still we sip some night-feeling
from a bombshell.

                              In the country,
pyramids constellate as faded porchlight,

where mountains should be the river
should be the rocks should be is no answer.

Only tenderness reveals
the accidental scenery

and holds all consolation
to a shrug, when we lie

in each other's particles,
when we stand electric and absorbed.