June Since you’ve left, the rains haven’t stopped, running downhill after you, chasing you for your lunch. I’m smoking by that silver bench, drops punching the fug I blow from my pursed mouth. My fingers are stained with you. A tree-root strangles my ankle. I never want to see my father again, the disappointment mask he likes wearing. Your tongue catches that last drop of soju and my lungs constrict of their own accord, and breath is a far country with no visas, no passports. Previously published in Phantom Billstickers Café Reader. Ivy Alvarez's second poetry collection is Disturbance (Seren, 2013). She is also the author of several shorter collections, including Hollywood Starlet (Chicago: dancing girl press, 2015) and The Everyday English Dictionary (London: Paekakariki Press, 2016). A recipient of writing fellowships from MacDowell Colony, Hawthornden Castle and Fundacion Valparaiso, her work appears in journals and anthologies in many countries and online, with selected poems translated into Russian, Spanish, Japanese and Korean. She lives in New Zealand. www.ivyalvarez.com Comments are closed.
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Blog HostNatasha Kochicheril Moni is a writer and a licensed naturopath in WA State. Enjoying this blog? Feel free to put a little coffee in Natasha's cup, right here. Archives
October 2019
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