vivek jena Flickr
My garden opens to the deep.
Waves break over the rocks--
liquid glass, squid mass, pulpo.
Sunstars digest their prey externally.
Do they eat the drowned? a child asks.
In mental theaters across the beach,
we see the sun cover a bloated head,
its mouth fastened over an eye. Pop.
The winter sun dies in my garden,
Drops of gold & indigo daub the sand.
Twenty million years old, the guide says
when I show her the dappled rocks,
inedible even for the sea
which spits them out, peach pits
upon the murky blooms & grasses of the beach.
I sleep I sleep
I sleep myself awake
this haunted afternoon.
The Projection Curse Revealed
Geometry of a silver womb. Pi shards.
Eyeball jellyfish. Parrots. Foxes.
Earthquake pulses, stuttering camera.
The pond in winter, fiend-lined
for the stampede.
When: Sundown in the rail yard
(while iron spans creak over living waters
& quicksand-faces sputter, supine).
How: Wars will penetrate the hippocampus,
hiccupping forth a quicksilver mess.
Then: The beach will erupt in iridescence & gut-froth
& burgundy stains.
Amee Nassrene Broumand is an Iranian-American poet, photographer, & grad student in computer science. Nominated for a Pushcart by Sundog Lit, she also has poems in A-Minor Magazine, Empty Mirror, Menacing Hedge, Occulum, Word Riot, & elsewhere. She blogs for Burning House Press & served as their guest editor for the month of March 2018. Find her on Twitter @AmeeBroumand.
Write something about yourself. No need to be fancy, just an overview.