sara deniz akant


a name is a small to-do work. a mess of Peri
in the morning, Peri in the evening, Peri-preparing
to finish the form

of a girl in the brane, something
darker, Natty lite, which is a monotone matrix

                       flight getting power
                       washed in quick-brane, melt in

sickness in safety, in sickness in health, in sickness in
capable silence – please watch this my dear, unsexy
– something green

chooses Greene. something other chose to sing
in a husband-brusque tone
like a hush-hush, normal song like
Danzig’s mother – like go on sing to be the thing

that sings to eat your brother

the collaged that is choosing the wrong
liberal arts college, something
            straight as a threat, as the who-knows-what
they see is some exotic-exotic –

            she’s exotic as ice-cream.
            I want you to think of that horrible cream
            that you ate from the man in the street.

ice-cream is a trick – she says, of the mind
and sticks the cone in his face, pretending to be kind.

this girl we’re preparing is swampy and mean.

this form loves its own horror, finds comfort
escaping from a bed made of reck, made of
reck, reck, reck – made of she who wakes
to a scratch, to a body and a scream, to a kick
and she falls then,
            falling back once again.

in a picture-mirror someone writes – them them them.