memory is what I tell myself I buried
in the backyard as a child, but it wasn't. a toy
pirate chest filled with stones so smooth
I couldn't help but call them

treasure. The word river spoken 
with twice the reverence of god. I could see the river,
it was there and reed-lined and living,
a thing I could drown in if I tried hard enough,

or didn't. Those were not the banks
a person could grow older on, just more tired.
When I say I never had the energy to swim
to the other side what I mean is I tried,

I really did, but I only slipped under it,
saw what was beneath and hidden in the silt.
drank the water, the soil, and what was in that too.
I won't say I drowned,

that feels too final, but
I haven't stopped glowing since.
from the journal SOUTH DAKOTA REVIEW
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"Why We Need Joyce Mansour—And Surrealism"

"The latest in this starry cavalcade of Surrealists to return to (Anglophone) earth in this late, accursed hour is Syrian-Jewish Anglo-Egyptian poet Joyce Mansour, thanks to the new volume Emerald Wounds: Selected Poems, translated by Emilie Moorhouse, selected and edited by Moorhouse with Garret Caples and published by City Lights. The title Emerald Wounds already spasms with evocative contradiction, inscribing Mansour as the capital-S Surrealist she is."

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Cover of Annulet #2
What Sparks Poetry:
Robin Myers on Other Arts


"I stopped to watch a group of people doing something odd and beautiful together on a patch of dry grass. Was it a dance improvisation workshop? An actors' warm-up? I couldn't tell, but it felt special to see them doing it. They drifted around and moved their limbs, interacting sporadically with their surroundings and each other, in a way that felt both spontaneous and coordinated, both public and private. Both practiced and unfinished, even unfinishable. They used only their bodies, no language at all."
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