Sonnet 3

Poem By Anthony Parker

Stars are exploding in my chest—
a miracle, a mystery with no
hands. My body is a grave—all cool
fruits and stray bones, the geometry of
water—an electric pulse, the echo
of color and shape. Fingers reach out
from every breath and I wake up, covered in
blankets that have held the tropics of you.

One night I found the shape
of your hand among constellations—you
exist in the hesitation of stars, hanging
upside down half the year. I am awake despite
the sleeping curves of my body, in another time
zone you are dreaming in metaphor.

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A Beer On Your Front Porch

You were back in town on
my mother's birthday. Half
drunk, I walked to your
house, stumbling down the street.


With a precise hand, palm
facing the earth, I'd stretch
my arm out the car window,
convinced that at the right speed

Sonnet 1

Every woman should know
the phases of the moon, ache
in the thick infancy of rain—
every morning stretch and shake

Sonnet 2

Down along the shore waves reach
and touch the black volcanic rocks, splashing,
let into places a body isn’t. Hung low,
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Sonnet 4

The television is on, sound just
above a whisper—an incandescent
flickering glow, a campfire manufactured
in Japan. Outside, a handful of stars