Each Wednesday, Editor's Choice brings you a poem from a new book selected as a must-read. Our feature editor this week is J. Michael Martinez.
Farid Matuk
                what’s my work
what I thought our shadow

                on the distaff side
                lined out women gone out
either way from you

                pulling thread out of flax from the staff
                writing
                anything we want
                depilating
                or setting hair

                if each dimension in time is also another
                already folded in or stacked on top

our work might fall off the display
                but maybe we don’t

during the war being a reliable thing to say
                what metals went into the sentence

                into the tack and spurs if iron was cheap
let’s say iron with what vigilance the books say
                was in the air

                everyone came to see the rebel
hero sent away in Adah’s body

                a thing she mastered onstage
                until it was a room she could leave

                                shavings of metal on her fingertips
                animal grease     in her teeth in her century
                                no edits or quick takes outside of a train

or strapped to a horse     onto that externalizing love
                machines call up

                like when it rains
drops shine slow in our desert
                air threaded
about the water tower
                and eucalyptus grove

                like stage curtains
                heavy until they’re not

                like any of the videos that assume one day
you’ll join those of us still looking

                the curtains lighten
                but never fall off the little swarms

                Napoleon Sarony’s publicity pictures
lifted and split Adah into

                “a New Orleans baby”

“I will create a new sensation     depend on it”     Adah promised
that shudder in a long sequence where sides fold in time
in edits in the eye she put herself there and gone

in a dummy’s place tied to a real horse
riding four stories up a narrow ramp a new feeling
off a great horsewoman     wolves on the run Inca doves fog the stage     for an ideal man

of refinement taciturn was a woman seen     in their thousands
conical retina tunnels layering     each other’s looking so many times
did it feel like they slapped space red to its surface     then a fine

ash in the wrinkles     it’s not a space for details that fall away in words
clean blood     where no one steps in the reservoir you can see it between us
seeping in degrees crusting or draining     into various attitudes rendering

feelings her busy arms would strip the air
clean of critics saying     “She poses better than she speaks”
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Student Discovers Lost Siegfried Sassoon Poem to Young Lover
 

"Heartfelt handwritten lines from the war poet ‘fell into the lap’ of researcher who was trawling through theatre director’s letters."

via THE GUARDIAN 
READ ALL TODAY'S HEADLINES

"I was twenty and an undergraduate at Howard University, taking Dr. Jon Woodson’s Survey of African American Poetry. He was suspicious of labels and spent the first weeks of class arguing against his own course title. His first lecture began with a summary dismissal of Maya Angelou, who a year earlier was Bill Clinton’s Inaugural Poet. He would hand out poems with the authors’ names blacked out, and ask: “What makes this a Black poem, or is this good or bad?” We had to defend our answers. Our shortcomings were immediately evident. This is how I was introduced to Gwendolyn Brooks’ 'A Lovely Love.'"

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