Unlikely 2.0


   [an error occurred while processing this directive]


Editors' Notes

Maria Damon and Michelle Greenblatt
Jim Leftwich and Michelle Greenblatt
Sheila E. Murphy and Michelle Greenblatt

A Visual Conversation on Michelle Greenblatt's ASHES AND SEEDS with Stephen Harrison, Monika Mori | MOO, Jonathan Penton and Michelle Greenblatt

Letters for Michelle: with work by Jukka-Pekka Kervinen, Jeffrey Side, Larry Goodell, mark hartenbach, Charles J. Butler, Alexandria Bryan and Brian Kovich

Visual Poetry by Reed Altemus
Poetry by Glen Armstrong
Poetry by Lana Bella
A Eulogic Poem by John M. Bennett
Elegic Poetry by John M. Bennett
Poetry by Wendy Taylor Carlisle
A Eulogy by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Joel Chace
A Spoken Word Poem and Visual Art by K.R. Copeland
A Eulogy by Alan Fyfe
Poetry by Win Harms
Poetry by Carolyn Hembree
Poetry by Cindy Hochman
A Eulogy by Steffen Horstmann
A Eulogic Poem by Dylan Krieger
An Elegic Poem by Dylan Krieger
Visual Art by Donna Kuhn
Poetry by Louise Landes Levi
Poetry by Jim Lineberger
Poetry by Dennis Mahagin
Poetry by Peter Marra
A Eulogy by Frankie Metro
A Song by Alexis Moon and Jonathan Penton
Poetry by Jay Passer
A Eulogy by Jonathan Penton
Visual Poetry by Anne Elezabeth Pluto and Bryson Dean-Gauthier
Visual Art by Marthe Reed
A Eulogy by Gabriel Ricard
Poetry by Alison Ross
A Short Movie by Bernd Sauermann
Poetry by Christopher Shipman
A Spoken Word Poem by Larissa Shmailo
A Eulogic Poem by Jay Sizemore
Elegic Poetry by Jay Sizemore
Poetry by Felino A. Soriano
Visual Art by Jamie Stoneman
Poetry by Ray Succre
Poetry by Yuriy Tarnawsky
A Song by Marc Vincenz


Join our Facebook group!

Join our mailing list!


Print this article


Three Poems by Michelle Greenblatt


The woodland remembers me. It smells me, and remembers. I can hear the shadows turn bright, the low pulsation of the trees, the hum of the leaves, the scumbled treeflowers alive. The deep grasses camouflage the snakes. I buried you in tone-deaf sound. But it seems I misspoke, or spoke to soon, or spoke too much, for you lie with me in the deep circle and would not get up again even though the combustible treeline froze and the record kept skipping and my skin started to burn.

1.14-16.2006




everything would be perfect

everything would be perfect
if not for the storm inscribed
on the passing-through kiss
of the bullet. long ago I left
my light on your tongue. you bend
over our narrow hole (I will bury myself
in your garden.) gravity spreads its wings
and crashes. I ricochet across spraying
sand; the combustible moon chews dogwoods
and caresses the fat grass. the fraction
of us thinks it can feel the pause between dreams
as we stand soft against the rift in the winter sky.
the sun darks, tone-deaf rivers purl across paths
of drought. under water I see you. I would say
a prayer but it is the same today as it is all days;
night cracks over my head like a baseball
bat.

11.6-7.2005




and no windows

and no windows
in the room, he says as
salt-cracked earth




              pours from
              his mouth in chunks—he is
              formless, with a melody (tiny and dead)


                                   that he will
                                   open while resting
                                   among the black-eyed


Susan's—imagine, then, febrile
green fields with wrought iron
flowers poking through...every time

                                                        I answer,
                                                                     a too-thick
                                                                     hugeness swallows

itself, muttering
pseudo-scratch-syllables,
the front and back of my throat


            rubbing against each other
                        the way a bird rubs
                        against the sky, the sun's tongue

                                                                licks the horizon: an arm
                                                                of shadow across the intricate gardens
                                                                shaking, he

walks across
            the dirt path he makes
            when he speaks a yellow shadow.

                                   entwining itself around
                                   the sunny white sepulchre,
                                                also no chairs, he says, looks

into my frosty smile, semiluminous
and carves us out from the dead, five
years, nine years, windows lit with fire.

10.25.2005


E-mail this article

Michelle Greenblatt is the new co-poetry editor of AND PER SE AND, formerly known as "mprsnd". Her first book brain:storm, went to press this January. Her work will be published in these magazines: Kulture Vulture, Dusie, Xerolage, Moria, Peek Review, Naked Sunfish, Fire, BlazeVOX, Word for/ Word, & Admit Two