Audio Feature: Monica Kim (Shō No. 5)
praise: for the sisters putting on rubber suits for each other / praise: for preparing the day’s catch with soy sauce & pan-fried onions
POETRY submissions Are open
Established in 2002, revived in 2023

praise: for the sisters putting on rubber suits for each other / praise: for preparing the day’s catch with soy sauce & pan-fried onions

My excised uterus cramps with a phantom / womb’s labor pain, hard as that is to fathom.

I think I'm tiring of auditioning. / I'm not dancing for bread anymore.

and the foreman was afraid / I could cut off a finger or 2

How quickly we adapt, water carving / a vein in earth.

Rolling fields kiss the edges of town, farmland / lying flat and fallow like the rest of us.

There's a certain surrender / to being an optimist—one which begins / with the day but, in fact, begins // with the evening.

When I say moon, I recall brown calves lowing / at night, sheltered under their mothers' calm grace / in star-studded pastures.

We’re all something else / to someone else. Maybe he became better, a person / who hated sharing a body with the person he used to be.

the turkeys arrive while I’m deciphering / the if this, then that of taxes.

"I was thinking a lot about human mortality and environmental catastrophe, and how we all are momentary in the world"

a name is a pillar. a name is a post.

After her death, she returns to me as a black goat.

One / becomes my aunt. Enter AUNT in wide / angle shots. Flickers form infinite / possibilities cast on that screen.


as abecedarian. Beehive. Corner cabinet, desk / detritus. Earthshine. Faultline. As gristle and gall.

It’s true—the scene is charged / with a heat surpassing what I endured to arrive here.

“This poem is one of many calls and/or responses to the poet Megan Merchant. Our co-authored collection A Slow Indwelling comes out Fall 2024 from Harbor Editions and deals with a father and mother wrestling through cultural violence, the fragility of childhood, the preciousness of a parents love, and the beauty and pain expressed through the natural world.”

This poem is part of a larger epistolary exchange, "A Slow Indwelling", with Luke Johnson, and will be published this fall with Harbor Editions.

I’m more broken than I’ve ever been. / This shell of a body, emptied / and longing.

These trees war scalded from the mountains, burnt stubble, replanted when my father was a child, now tall again.

The last night with my mother, I blinded like a snake in the blue, /
shed the skin of daughter and switched roles

i am here with you by the premade sushi. / by the out-of-season strawberries. / by the tofu.

we stumble through a forest / of awkward silences, careful not to touch // the brambles.