Matina L. Stamatakis









In darkling pond I contract mussel

in palms: one daphnia too caustic

twitch, spiny cauls clutch and paperweight

contents hard of muscle fat, deiform

in their own eclat.


Cocoons will curdle or dogear,

metamorphose into jelly after seismic

wave of mouth slivers transparent flesh only

to jerk loose five furious limbs.

[My God, how beast struggles].






What of Vein Seeps into Sachet


in a blaze of hot, dusty air I plump the artificial waves

feeling pulse as broken artifact of a once beating heart


now silent form and teetering love-lump:



††††††††††† a shell of zero to do

††††††††††††††††††††††† catawba full of lung

††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† an ebonized aorta


in its late withering state

††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† [is maquette with synthesis?]





††††††††††††††††††††††† transfusedand ripe-bleeding

††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† out elemental



of I:

††††††††††† heady air, artificial being.





A Curious Mist


O it thumps and reverberates

past my window like a loose end

a string to mend the broken pane

††††††††††††††††††††††† of white escape


its complexities

††††††††††† block out the sun

and anything that is cantic

††††††††††††††††††††††† with the presence


of red





at the carnival we contemplate

dying our hands the color of Chay root

and cicatrix

††††††††††††††††††††††† [I do not think

Iíll make it home to testtheir origins]


our candied mouths make their first appearances

as virgins

††††††††††††††††††††††† who do not taste anything sticky

until told






in vernal days I see myself as a canary

or motherís sickly valerian shoots

††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††††† I will ask

how they bend to look like dying pricks


and she will wave and tap her foot like sheís performing

her first zapateo

††††††††††††††††††††††† shake her string-thin finger

††††††††††† as she sends me to my room to glare at the window





a circle crosses that of a circle,


gentle blurís circumference

where exhaust is born plump--


suckling fetus and be death-gone all that

palpates with these metronome



are ivory-laden bells

[nothing ever sounds

good in ivory,


nor yellow-white, neon-colored,



nothing is an impeccable



I cling to with ear.



[step back to issue 3]