There is nothing that I cannot show you,
The last card was marked. Only the loser cared.
From the moment the patient becomes indistinguishable
He took the wood from me and bound my wrists
Robert Snyderman reads his poem "Monastery for Sandy Hook Children and Teachers," winner of the 2013 Confrontation Poetry Prize, which appears in Issue No. 113, Spring 2013.
The orange and garnet of evening roll through an open window,
Sometimes we want the sky,
I drive from L.A. to Anaheim
in Judy’s four wheel drive, over-murdered
with mileage and cigarette burns.
the dead bloom, planted so
long ago. You never expected
much from them. It’s as if
Haven't you had enough of 3:27 a.m.? Even the crickets
are woozy. The mind's eye a rotoscope, sexy as a sucking
ceiling fan. Blackmail jitters with a distraction; make
(The former first mate of the Pequod is permitted
one last communication after his tragic end.)
So I was dead. The question of the whale
Sun lights the geese, and the gander
glides along the route of his reflection.
He’s attentive, takes his time