top of page

from: "Amazon" Ann Pedone

Updated: Apr 30



Unavoidably


the men with their


humble crotches


A house inside out. Or


are they ten?


Fucking against


gravity, I’ve never had much


of an affinity for lakes, fine


museums or very small scrotums







Always colluding, always


worshiping too many depressions


I am having shingles


I am pissing all over a dead man’s mattress


I am eating three eggs on white toast


Then my many bodies prologue


Who will be here to inseminate me tomorrow?








“You are always God damn


eroticizing the present tense”



Technically, I’m a hysteric



“Hotel robe”


“There’s no poetry to


be had here unless it’s physical!”


“Thumb in my mouth”


“Hot on the case


of a missing baby”


The birds, she explains, are


language. Finger them








According to my source


how a woman carries


 the small bit of flesh


lodged between vagina


& anus


is a sign of her weathers


hickory stick


the last bit of fruit


jam left in the jar







Or, in other words


there have always been men who


have a long, messy history of


biting down too hard on cheap


supermarket dates











Ann is the author of The Medea Notebooks (Etruscan Press), and The Italian Professor’s Wife (Press 53), as well as numerous chapbooks. Her work has recently appeared in Posit, Texas Review, The American Journal of Poetry, the Dialogist, Barrow Street, 2River, Tupelo Quarterly, and the Chicago Quarterly Review. Ann has been nominated for Best of the Net, and has appeared as Best American Poetry’s “Pick of the Week”. She graduated from Bard College with a degree in English Literature, and has a Master’s in Chinese Language and Literature from UC Berkeley.

Recent Posts

See All

Two poems by Mckendy Fils-Aimé

sipèstisyon If people say your child is beautiful, your child will become ugly. ok, i confess. once, i said fuck you to danny perkins on the last day of kindergarten after a miserable year of being pu

"Dead Things" by Beth Boylan

I feel compelled to pick up the baby bird that has died just outside my doorstep this morning. Place her in my hand and rub her toothpick ribs with my thumb. Gently kiss the milky-blue bulbs of her ey

Two poems by Daniel Edward Moore

Hey, Future is that you / in the moment / a Buddhist might love / enough to hyperventilate / or the day’s dizzy spin /of 24 hours / kicking joy / to the curbs / of chaos / blessed by Hallmark’s / squa

Comentarios


bottom of page