May 1, 2012 POETRY / FICTION

















Jacqui Rowe




but light was not his field


dirtier in busy doors


and tightly woven doorways


shades of its refraction trimmed


and skimmed dishevelled ladies




his brain kept flaming spills


alive in bell jars birds fell


dead out of the sky his phantasy


revelling at length in patterns


of great earthquakes




the certain stars showed


smiles of loosened hair


wicking away all terrible


appearances and unforeseen




in time he went for phlogiston


and weeping said within himself


the first breath of a word











Jacqui Rowe




when clocks retract


in this purloined hour in altered forms


of words we make a film about


invisible twice over


a hidden Muslim on a bike




you conjure worlds inside the room


that play together to infinity


where unconsidered


children anticipate reunion




trains are running consequentially


in places we may never touch




if that’s not how it is you say


our unborn intentions never anywhere


but here




our only chance is le bicyclist Algerian


and in fake time this conversation

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  1. Ronald Fischman May 02, at 16:24

    Andrew's retelling of the feminine ritual could come right out of The Feminine Mystique. The question is ownership. If the daughter owns her body, men, and other women, will love it and want to merge with it. If a man or woman owns his or her sexuality as a lifelong gift, it can last for decades. Obviously, the poet succeeded in evoking a collision of worlds and spheres.

    • blackswanpoetry May 13, at 18:55

      Thank you Andrew for your comment. I love to see where my pieces are taken by the reader.


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