Poem by Priscilla Becker

 

homunculus

supposedly there is a central
place — not like downtown
where the subways
fornicate, not main
street, not the sleeping
                                  lot

more like that picky
fairy tale where the girl
takes scrimps from each plate–
the science of fractions–
so slow as to go
                      unnoticed

slow things go

in the current state
of ambiguity—abstract as air
that floats & floats
two inches (though measuring
is too precise, controlled)

smudged lumps of skin
huddle in the mouth
of the closet, glomming
onto the underside

trunk
of nothing
              to touch

the face I read
bumbles into one stubborn
puff

                       yielding
no shape, blowing off
into no definition

carcass of the unknown

 

Priscilla Becker: “I write fiction, non-fiction, poetry, and have been published across all 3 genres in journals & anthologies; some examples: Fence, Boston Review, Raritan, The Literary Review, The Nation. I’ve had 2 full collections of poetry published — the 1st one won The Paris Review Book Prize, and my chapbook death certificate will emerge from Ugly Duckling Presse.

TJ Edson is the Art Director of Oddball Magazine.

 

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