Jeremy Michael Clark
The South Got Something To Say

Not an ounce of your body’s blood
is yours alone, yet you dare

carry it across state lines,
knowing what happens to anyone caught

with that kind of contraband.
You might think you have no accent,

but open your mouth
& I’m all they hear. Not a word you say
belongs to you.

A Cadillac’s trunk,
an empty pantry, dumpster, grave:

how is the shape of your mouth any different?



Memory, Flooding Back

The river’s rise out of itself began
in the west, the lowest part

of the city. Its first breach of the bank:
subtle, just a thin film

of water over the land, like a hand
coaxes a child to sleep. Within hours,

it reached our homes. When the water
seeped through the window, I felt

so confused. How like a child to think
the house had started to cry.
from the journal WEST BRANCH
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"Inside Bernadette Mayer’s Time Capsule"

"Nostalgia—for the carnal, improvised mood of 1971, but also for the halcyon days of, say, last summer, before we were afraid of communal life—has become the work’s dominant key. Yet 'Memory' also seems ahead of its time: a database of half-captured meals, barns, bodies—a kind of analog Internet."
 
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Cover of Vivek Narayanan's book, Universal Beach
What Sparks Poetry:
Vivek Narayanan on “Ode to Cement”


"Most of all, however, Curt was interested in cement, its powerful malleability. Cement could allow you to fashion new things never before seen on the landscape, or it could just as well slink back to imitate the forms that were already there. I, on the other hand, was not a ready fan of this material. I couldn’t deny that it disgusted me, had always disgusted me, but now especially, when the hum of construction was all-present in Indian cities as to never stop. Cement was simply a mainstay in the air we breathed."
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