Brent Fisk
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Birthday Abcderian

 

Ass-smack and then comes the red
breathing, the long inhale and twist,
crying into existence.
Don't think it's not about sadness,
each ragged wail, the scrunched up eyes,
flailing arms and fists are the only way to say
Goodbye to wherever it was I came from,
heat of the oven-womb,
intensive amniotic dreams of
jellied bellies, the sweep of ultrasound,
knit stocking cap and booties,
lactating rivers of hope and love,
mother's milk that builds immunity,
nipple to latching mouth,
offspring as door to the future,
past going fuzzy as an infant's first vision,
queer fluorescent lights, the scent of fingers,
rattle near the ear, rattle-heart,
sibilance of the blood we shared,
topographic scans, the blood stick, the weighing,
upper lip sticking out when hungry,
vague, watery dreams, the sound of the heart receding,
wellspring of the womb, the open door, the name
Xavier after father's father, the first bright
yellow light shining through the window, candy striper enters,
zebra of the long halls, she volunteers a smile.  

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No books or chapbooks yet. I keep meaning to get a manuscript together, but I haven't got much beyond some decent titles. I've been nominated for two Pushcart prizes and, in the last two years, I've had over a hundred poems taken by journals including Rattle, Folio, Prairie Schooner, 5 AM and Diner. I love the work of Charles Simic, Louise Gluck and Russell Edson.
 

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