#Poetry Wed: ​”What Time Is, What Space” by Kimberly Grey

“To turn over in bed and see you there
is to see you in a new hemisphere.
The geography of desire
is boundless…​

…The mind is​
a landscape like a room.
And all across the night​
we shifted and we shifted into​
magnificent shapes…​

…The universe could​​
have been many places. Now it is
just one place. We race and we race to it
and when we arrive​
we are two tired, busted-out stars.​
In a room wherefrom you are looking at me:
what we obliterate is ours.”​

Read the entire poem at Sundog.

#Poetry Wed: “Kissing After Illness” by Ellen Bass

“Our lips are so slow. They meet cell
by cell, as though they’ve traveled vast
distances like pilgrims, bent under
their tin pots and blankets. Our lips
arrive, but even when they touch,
they wait…”

Read the entire poem at Nimrod.

#Poetry Wed: “You’ve Been Swallowed by a Whale Only You Can Let Go” by Marc McKee

“It’s no surprise that I hate it
when my friend is swallowed by a whale
even if it is only a dream of being swallowed
by a whale, the whale everything ever
all at once and thus a stupefying brick of cloud
borne by Manhattan’s swaying pallbearers

as I think of how to try to bring her out,
and also thus whale after whale full of whales,
all the coffins, the urns, the urns’ ins
and outs, the white whale
of the gone, the swallowed of all the nations, the ones
we feel sawed off from singularly, grief, grief…

…and slip the cinematic tentacles
and slap the needle off the face of the beloved record
and charge into new dreams
like fools that won’t quit singing.
The record spools and loops and pools
and floods into the air, the menacing atmosphere

a whale when a whale moves, an epic wave
taking forever to build
against what tiny forts we’ve made
from pillows and purloined fencing, our cups empty
and refilled a dozen times over, all our sheets in the wind,
our cultivated and distant loves, our locals,

our air…”

Read the entire poem at Copper Nickel.

#Poetry Wed: “Leaving Is A Playground Is Not Love” by Emily Koehn

“It is the indecision of a seesaw. The wood chips. You told me never again live in
tender. The wood has grain as if I could engrave. For you a monkey bar. For me
straw and light. For you the scurry of an ant. The sky spreads out like an arm…”

Read the entire poem at Thrush.