Iris Jamahl Dunkle

Issue #
March 24, 2019

Archive (a Duet)

Mud, feel of silk. Mind can bloom into

anything, plant it deep enough.

Marigolds loll on lollipop heads.

Wind scatters and bends.[since California is its own muse…]


Raw throated. Storm

grows. Loud as years. Hunger

is something you hold in your hips.

[within pure joy exists a kind of hollow]


Things moving. Anonymity of motion.

Face pressed to glass.

A found light at the tunnels edge.

[the weather is not the windows fault]


Words shaved by sparks

danger preserved in the bog of the mind.

What rises, revises, surface.

[Oh the bodies I loved were very tired]


At the fair, at every fair the Psychic sits

in a moveable booth behind

skin of lace and fear. Pace sidewalk.

[I was no sad animal graveyard.]


Find night sweats. Sound of owls.

Deconstruction through

a construction of questions.

[and after your research among the transcripts of the institution
what gives you immortal life turns out to be the breath of another person.]

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