Poetry By Amee Nassrene Broumand

      ​ vivek jena Flickr


Sea Things


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,
shimmering underground.

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
 

Ingredients

Geometry of a silver womb. Pi shards.
Eyeball jellyfish. Parrots. Foxes.
Earthquake pulses, stuttering camera. 
The pond in winter, fiend-lined
for the stampede.

Directions

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.

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