LOUDSPEAKER:: Three Poems by Anne Brink

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WUSSY is proud to present new work by Brooklyn poet, Anne Brink. 
If you would like to send in a writing submission, please contact Nicholas Goodly


Rite of Spring

When the dancer emerged in the field
the audience could no longer see
she had been crying.

There was a desire there
I could not pinpoint
like a star

flashing wildly.
Moving her limbs
as if she still expected

to hear angels within them.
In the white lights
what it’s like to be counterfeit

blue or missing altogether.
The worst part about being apart from you
is that I go on pretending

I don’t see you, while I do things
without you in them.
I’m not wasting time, though.

You can spend an entire summer
lost in the part of you
given up to another summer.

History has proven this to be true—
Just look at the fish in the dried up river,
dead and glittering.
 

Femme Maison

Paris was nice in the springtime.
The marble-topped picnics
along the canal.

And in a corner,
someone spoke quietly of bread
redistributing itself

into equal pieces of glass.
Everything here too perfect
to not taste, despite harm.

Being a citizen is fantasy.
Mostly because I still believed in you
I felt pulses where there shouldn’t be

a pulse, anymore.
The city in its ever-present
position of vanishing.

Then we arrived at the beautiful
man-made sea.
I maintained my legs

in the mortal traffic,
convergence of accidents.
The colors of a different century,

pale salmon walls, the winter
impulse. The cinema collecting
her archaic mass of pearls.

I exited the garden and disappeared
into another garden.
When is a forest ever in chaos?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Primrose Hill

The one with peach nails for foraging,
the one sweet fruit gone sad,
the little buddha in bruise.

There was pain in the spaces between the leaves,
there were twins in a stroller on my path,
there was a space between them too.

I wanted to make that place soft,
their tender feet and limbs
less water by weight than mine.

Wants are like opals, dull and still there,
polished and still there,
pink and still there.

The sea I can’t pull out if its shell
and its small crying
when I open my front door.

 

 

Anne Brink is a poet and teacher based in Brooklyn, New York. When she is not at The Cooper Union Center for Writing, she works as an astrologer for Sanctuary. She has four planets in Scorpio.