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From the December 2020 Print Edition

A raindrop mirrorsThe whole typhoonStretched like a spoonUpon her clear Curvaceous skin,Synoptic nudeFully tattooedFor one instant With her whole kind’sCreation mythSo that her fall Expresses allThe other mindsShe’s fallen with. —Amit . . . . Continue Reading »

Mirror Work

From the March 2020 Print Edition

The peak that paints the lakeIs quick to break. A height becomes a depth,A life a death. An Eiger sinks beneathThe eager cleat As seeking shows us whatWe sought is not. To find a seeker’s pleasureIn self-erasure The mountaineer must wishHerself to mist. —Amit Majmudar Photo by thijser . . . . Continue Reading »


From the May 2017 Print Edition

A turkey, turnkey, turncoat, dovecote, dovewaddles and wavers and wings her way above,metempsychoses, metamorphosescrossing horizons, orisons, seasons, seas,slow-shutter shudder, each shape reshaped, rebornas cochon, cocoon, raccoon, acorn, corn,and art, like nature, thinking nothing of it—a . . . . Continue Reading »


From the June/July 2014 Print Edition

On your thirtieth birthday, you find that your clothes Belong to someone slimmer. It’s like only your socks haven’t shrunk in the wash. From then on, you remember Undressing in front of a lover or mirror To reach for the dimmer. . . . . Continue Reading »


From the November 2013 Print Edition

Infinity requires us to count to three, our calculus and three-step proof. Dust cubed is dust: The sum of love, unequalled, spans the fingers of a single hand. The word, archaic, still solves for man. Those Aramaic postulates hold” the algebraic is never old. We do the math to know the soul: . . . . Continue Reading »


From the October 2013 Print Edition

It would seem, from the sound of it, slang ?In Her Majesty’s Navy, say, circa ?Trafalgar”the deckhand whose job was ?To heave-ho the anchor aboard, ?The chain like a slain sea serpent? Collecting in coils behind him. Or maybe a meteor fragment, ?Some glittery space-coal without ?Any real . . . . Continue Reading »

The Christ-Frost

From the June/July 2011 Print Edition

After I had burned alive a spell, spellbound by the burning that bound me, I saw an Ice Cross rising down to me through sea- blue sky. This Ice Cross was the eye’s cross, submerged for years in the eye’s aqueous humor, an iceberg crux cracked off the Pole Star and splashed deep”all . . . . Continue Reading »


From the February 2010 Print Edition

Lord, late though I am, slide the lathe And shape, shave me. Shear me wraith- Slim, slave-thin; flay the skin in moth- Wings off my soul’s loathed sheath. Wrath- Ripe as I am, pluck me, pulp me. Filth That I am, bathe me. Faith, Be water; Father, help me drown. I cannot breathe until you . . . . Continue Reading »