of my true love's hair.
The Pinch Online proudly presents our collection of poetry, featuring work by Chen Chen, Philip Levine, and others.
of my true love's hair.
"These poems and songs are from THE MIRRORMAKER, a book-plus-album that relocates the myth of Echo and Narcissus to Bob Dylan's hometown in Minnesota's Iron Range. The collection is forthcoming from Milkweed Editions, and serves as a counterpoint to Laidlaw's debut collection THE STUNTMAN, which was published by Milkweed last year." —Brian LaidlawRead More
Lovebirds roost on the broken-down swings
behind our avocado tree. Yellow crumbs
dust our sheets as gently as his palm on my leg
when he asks Why birds? Why envy them
I’m tired of watching birds, unthinkingRead More
In my dream it's over
& over again: my brother becoming
a tree: his lips going wooden & striped
with pine grain, his feet
turning to roots & finding creases
in the floor from which he becomes immovable.
His broad human shoulders smooth
even with his neck, his face
widens, & whatever words I try
to say to him, his needle ears
do not hear, twitching silently.
I am an elegy to be exhaled at dusk. I am an elegy to be written on a late
October leaf. An elegy to be blown
from its tree by a late October wind. To be stomped on & through
by passersby old & young
& dead & unborn.Read More
Two ten-inch phonograph records, Bluebirds
going white, that won't give up their music.
My uncle's perfect clothbound book
that opened the secret of electric growth.
My mother's gap-toothed tortoise combs.
"There was the first time the ocean called to me
in its many voices. Sudden and bizarre,
I thought, that it would choose me"Read More
Sometimes the Bible repeats
Itself. Abraham like God and
Isaac like Jesus. Abraham knife
in hand, sobbing but ready.Read More
"As a way of entering a room
say no to the amplified leaves,
to the eyes that land as they do"
"While slicing shallots with
a cleaver I wonder if
I’ll ever wield it at my daughter
—and if I can blame that
flick of the wrist
"You no longer dream your dead father alive in your childhood home. You’re an adult now, at least five studio apartments removed from that archetypal v-roofed house, curlicues of smoke rising from the rectangle chimney."Read More
"I made it out of clay first; not clay but dirt, the wet dirt we used as face paint over our cheeks, shaped into mud pies and then threw, sun-baked, against the wooden fence while the trains came by; that’s a lie though, not what I made it out of"Read More
"A truth: I am afraid of how
light exposes what lives
in dark rooms. Just lately I’ve noticed
the breath I inhale refuses my lungs"
"so to the task, pseudo-adam, rattler-in-an-adam
mask, adam-fallen-short, of calling things by
their longing names, the schlitz cans holding
"Honeysuckled in the thistles of sheets and shushes
I could not understand her writhing fire
why light fragmented even after"
"Not being dead is neither worst nor best case scenario
It is just regular like you would see a beautiful orange chicken"
"The light was a specific kind
as a sky-field of stars without a moon
His mouth alone was enough
for me to know love’s brutal pull"
"It was the summer the lake froze two feet thick & the streets were covered in frost. We were on the shore in our bathing suits, ready for vacation, but it never came. What we couldn’t understand made us angry—some of us threw rocks & tables at the ice, hoping to crack it, while others spent whole mornings just screaming at the sun."Read More
"Thin, vinegar-sauce tang calls us
to our seats like somnambulists.
Our fever-dreams are burnt ends,
collard greens, sliced white bread."
"First of all, such a fussy word—little bundles
of nerve sewn up and plunged in a trunk,"