The Arrest, in all its surreal narrative trappings, supercars, and Hollywood theatrics, wants to know if words can save us in a dystopia.
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You tried to color my hair at the kitchen sink the night we moved in together: a big man wielding a little brush with surprising delicacy, applying blond dye in practiced streaks.
I see a photograph of a human heart entirely drained of blood, its surface translucent. The aortic valve and pericardium membrane encapsulating the heart are a pale, pinkish beige just shy of
Chaco Canyon yesterday, impulse after reading the Childs stuff. Many years of wanting to go. I thought it took 5 hours or more but driving a little hard it was only 3.5.
because there’s something I should tell you,⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀but you’ll need to come to me. I reachand the rock of me stays,⠀⠀⠀⠀ just here where I’m mortared— ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ I must, then, own my arms,
I come home sad so I slice potatoes thin and fry them with oil and onions, keeping watch to flip at the perfect time, right when they crisp up golden. I remember
At Waitomo, New Zealand If there is no heaven I’ll make due rest my head in the cave of constellations. Look up at The Milky Way pressed against stony pomegranate flesh.
I.I sweep my porch in the sticky Georgia heat. I sweep, sweep, sweep like the dirt and the stray pine straw and the single bird feather will disappear as easily as the
Our bracken pool tidesin the small of your back. I move the earthor the earth is you or⠀⠀⠀ the earth moves usthick in the shadow-dark air.⠀⠀⠀ This once gravityis the law we
Matthew Woodman teaches at CSU Bakersfield and is a graduate of the IAIA MFA program in Santa Fe, NM. He is the author of This Is Not Your Moon, and his poem
Solid Water I wait for the want to come inside of mewhile watching the morning commute near the Amstel. A stork on a houseboat does the samewhile hundreds of cyclists navigate narrow lanes. She