SHELBY HANDLER
Blessing Over Organizing
Blessed are we, betrayers of all counterfeit kinships
Weekly poems, selected by the editors. Featuring new work as well as poems from our rich archives.
Blessed are we, betrayers of all counterfeit kinships
Sunset purls Lake Fayetteville golden. The margin punctuated with goslings
I have eulogized the dead my entire life, and this has exhausted me.
land spreads / & there is no hilt for hands / to bend mines
You know nothing of the road out, the one where you will never face your perils
the whale washed up on the beach in monte hermoso, dead
Santa Ana season. Some construction crew up in Sherman Oaks.
Thus ma added grass to her name
the blue sweep of that lyric, calling everything back–
I will never make a child, no matter how many moons with their obligatory nights