ISSN: 1941-4137
POETRY THAT ENACTS THE ARTISTIC AND CREATIVE PURITY OF GLASS
POETRY THAT ENACTS THE ARTISTIC AND CREATIVE PURITY OF GLASS
Allison Blevins is the author of the collections Handbook for the Newly Disabled, A Lyric Memoir (BlazeVox, 2022) and Slowly/Suddenly (Vegetarian Alcoholic Press, 2021). Cataloguing Pain (YesYes Books, 2022), a finalist for the Pamet River Prize, is forthcoming. She is also the author of the chapbooks Chorus for the Kill (Seven Kitchens Press, 2022), Susurration (Blue Lyra Press, 2019), Letters to Joan (Lithic Press, 2019), and A Season for Speaking (Seven Kitchens Press, 2019), part of the Robin Becker Series. Allison is the Founder and Director of Small Harbor Publishing and the Executive Editor at the museum of americana. She lives in Missouri with her partner and three children where she co-organizes the Downtown Poetry reading series.
Previously in Glass: A Journal of Poetry:
The Silence of a Window
A former John and Renee Grisham fellow, Joshua Davis holds an MFA from the University of Mississippi, an MFA from Stonecoast at the University of Southern Maine, and an M.A. from Pittsburg State University. Recent poems have appeared in The Poetry Distillery, the museum of americana, and The Midwest Quarterly. He is a doctoral candidate in American Literature at Ohio University, and he lives near Tampa.
Audio Commentary to Lisa Cholodenko’s High Art
I understand like a person watching shadows
reflected in frosted frame glass: I can never be
a woman wrapped in the smoke-red thrall
of another woman, and I can’t be a man
who loves men either. I understand, a person
touching photo paper to tongue, I will
never wear a tank top tucked into belt,
hold someone close by the loose hairs at their nape.
I wish I was a woman — defiant — sunglasses
indoors, reclined and smoking the way other women arrange
dried flowers or desert threadbare spouses. I wish
a woman would look at me like this:
my thighs stuck to a red leather seat, a breeze
barely swilling my hair. God, this car taught me
to save every girl who never loved me
safely as fresh-made bedsheets, never loved
me as home-in-time-for-dinner. I learned to lean
too close and whisper: I need you on my level.
Glass: A Journal of Poetry is published quarterly by Glass Poetry Press.
All contents © the author.
All contents © the author.
