in Braque so I stepped in to see
what it was she saw
Never mind she said
without your broken shadow
playing across his lines
it’s just another boring cubist nude
Lance Larsen is the author of five poetry collections, most recently What the Body Knows (Tampa, 2018). His poems have appeared in APR, TLS, Southern Review, Ploughshares, Poetry, Orion, MQR, New York Review of Books, Threepenny Review, Paris Review, New Republic, New England Review, and Best American Poetry 2009.
What of a day when nothing forwards itself, when waiting for an event to ripen ends with neither the beauty nor the resolve I believe I deserve? And yet I go
Suitcases in the car, I found abuelo knelt by his bed, smelling of guaro, praying for his late son, Roberto, Homecoming Queen, who paraded in a pink dress even my tia (cross-herself)-admitted, looked fabulous.
Last night I watched The Unassisted Home Birth of Felix Alexander Pt. 2. I was most struck by the moment when the baby’s gray face emerged. Her partner was wiping her ass right above Felix’s gray little face. Frightening proximity of shit. Sent this to Ana Cecilia and she said: dear god. As in dear god—deliver me from this? It makes sense now, the whole saga of Eve.
