ISSUE 6 · SPRING 2011




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Copyright © 2011

Felicia Zamora





FELICIA ZAMORA



the dead are very patient*


Always whittling

an outside


from inside. Things to be

hollowed: ripe gourd, pig shoulder,


where seeds must go. {The eves} remember

your lips laden


in vowels

where whispers tongue


back what must be held.

Softness softens. The spider


crawls from out the crevasse –

vacuous conch shell –


webs out from the body

a kind of destruction


for all who float

weighted with venule


too bewitched {in silk

too lulled} in patterns of filament.


*from Jack Spicer’s After Lorca.



Ballad of Conjure

             for Jack's Terrible Presence


Pluck the dark

from behind a billion eyelids


paint sky with echoing

empty is not in the night


how the belly stores

clears space and spins


a womb happens without eyes

without candelabras


burning – here

in the calloused tufts


of skin below the ankles

of skin below the wrists


magic firing in furrows

cut in veined grooves


where all fruit as fruit

bears fruit. Sow


bulbs (plant us

all) and ovum (oh,


silkworm mother)

in wonder:


the frailest cocoon

swarms deep. What burns


boldest in the night

is the night.



A ghost's sagacity of

everything thimble


{thimble lifts} – visitors,

fingers in minute grooves

always foraging we

in places of keeping

light to ourselves: caves,

nut shells, the medulla oblongata –


infinity: a bee stinger’s tip

where {life

animates in hives

pointed dots swarm -scatter

out & out} – even specks

in lenses unhinge the jaws.


Six billion lips

part. {O thimble O.} What music

do we make? Haunting

our hums burn comets

up the spinal cord

spool silence out – a tether, a blood


vessel weighs of indents {guts

of thimbles} of oak limbs

scratching the pane, begging

entrance: a storm: a watch

ticking in a chest

stuffed with quilts.