In the letter never sent, / the one constructed / entirely from photographs, / Polaroids of moments, or / elements I have been / attempting to suppress.
Experimental black poetry and visual art.
“The book can draw in different audiences without catering to them. There’s a kind of rigorous hospitality, an aperture for dialogue.”
It was a long period of peace, prosperity, refined sensibilities and national self-confidence. And crumpets.
Vincent Zompa is the author of the poetry collection Heard Animal and several chapbooks.
I remember your torso locked in a twill shell. / I remember the same rotating body bare. / Is my sadness ever any different?
A boy is burying his sister.
They are playing at being dead.
(I cannot forget Breakneck Ridge.)
“In her twilight years,” as she calls them, / My second mother languishes.
You might be an heir to the throne,
but I’ve abolished the monarchy
before the sun comes out
and washes away the DayGlo.
“I originally published this in 2007 thinking, Oh this is a fine book, but I will be joined by a whole lot of amputee writers, and they are going to be here any minute. I’m still waiting.”
What language are you now? Blood-fuck blanco-made / on the leaves, (brother was blood in the ears) blood / bitter crop, body-doubt, the poplar rain falling grape-grey