Half-Life in Exile
Hala Alyan
I'm forever living between Aprils.
The air here smells of jacarandas and lime;
it's sunset before I know it. I'm supposed
to rest, but that's where the children live.
In the hot mist of sleep. Dream after dream.
Instead, I obsess. I draw stars on receipts.
Everybody loves the poem.
It's embroidered on a pillow in Milwaukee.
It's done nothing for Palestine.
There are plants out West that emerge only after fires.
They listen for smoke. I wrote the poem
after weeks of despair, hauling myself
like a rock. Everyone loves the poem.
The plants are called fire-followers,
but sometimes they grow after the rains. At night,
I am a zombie feeding on the comments.
Is it compulsive to watch videos?
Is it compulsive to memorize names?
Rafif and Ammar and Mahmoud.
Poppies and snapdragons and calandrinias:
I can't hear you. I can't hear you under the missiles.
A plant waits for fire to grow.
A child waits for a siren. It must be a child.
Never a man. Never a man without a child.
There is nothing more terrible
than waiting for the terrible. I promise.
Was the grief worth the poem? No,
but you don't interrogate a weed
for what it does with wreckage.
For what it's done to get here.
from the book THE MOON THAT TURNS YOU BACK / Ecco
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Cover image of Gabrielle Bates' book, Judas Goat
Natalie Staples Interviews Gabrielle Bates

"Maybe poetry, for me, is always some sort of dialogue with a much younger self, an attempt to reckon and reconcile with her, or the parts of her I still feel I carry with me. Perhaps, also, animals are a way to try to leave her behind, to give her companions for her journeying separate from mine. I am not totally sure how animals became such an inextricable part of my poetics, but the obsession with animals feels related to childhood as a mentality, as a wellspring of questions." 

via NORTHWEST REVIEW
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Cover of Mal Journal, issue 3, PlantSex
What Sparks Poetry:
Hua Xi on Language as Form


"Each stanza introduces a new scene and in doing so, a new plane of thought. Sipping tea, the necessity of money. caves, arteries….appear in turn. Each of these subjects raise new questions, but in continuation with each other, like the formation of some secret pattern. There is something in the poem which 'touches itself everywhere at once,' as Kapil writes, a preponderance of edges but not jagged or sharp ones."
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