ISSUE  1   2   3  


 5     SUBMIT

Two Poems

Joanna Fuhrman


I wasn’t trying to satirize early 21st century
masculinity when I twisted your Velcro nipple
and ripped open the time/space continuum
so that my favorite robot cuckoo could escape
being cajoled by every two-bit hired canary.
Okay, so wasn’t sincerity either. Not exactly.
If by sincerity you mean the early morning dew
rising from the untouched piano keys, that moment
when you realize you are not only capable of closing
your eyes at that boring movie, but also alone
in your one-room apartment with your broken
telescopes and unwashed ice-cream dishes.

You see I was only trying to understand
what America must feel like after all the boys
and girls have left the classroom, and all
the street lights are turned off to allow
for the multiplying of what will come to be
labeled “private space.” I just wanted to know
how the doctors felt after they finished sterilizing
the chess pieces and how the teachers felt after
they wrapped up the last of the janitors’ nose bleeds.
More than anything, I wanted to understand how
it might feel to be inside and outside at the exact
same moment. Would it be like holding a ladybug
in one’s open palm or would it be more
like the feeling of singing as you watch
the last audience member turn his back to the stage?

This is What I Meant When I Said My Memories Are Not Exactly True

plow off every helmet until your metal tongue
blasts open your head
     ride your humpback
 all over the green metallic dunes
behind an  eye  forest ?          stumps
wet hives              albino pigeons

no, nothing is ever said or sad
no, I never wear blue jeans to sleep in

the window opens to a back alley
dueling bagpipers practice a duende
version of  "Sweet Home Alabama"

     floating macaroni Brooklyn street life
is all I can think      no clue why or if
a puffy head muffin might as well
own every      so-called “emotion”
what is a puffy head muffin anyway?

it’s like love she said,
packaged to sell