Some weeks all I want to read is fiction, and the idea of poetry is like food from a foreign country I haven't visited in years, that I learned to like slowly as my tastebuds adapted. After so long without it, my longing for it is more a comfort than than the food itself. Which is to say that some weeks I give up before the end of even a short poem, and turn my tastes back to novels. Other weeks, and this is one--here in Hong Kong, with the haze of an impending typhoon thickening the air of the harbor--my tastebuds are all poem:
- "Summer" by Joanna Fuhrman;
- An excerpt from "Michiyuki," from Hiromi Ito's "Wild Grass On the Riverbank, which this article (on Vice?!) likens to The Descent of Alette crossed with My Life in the Bush of Ghosts, a comparison so apt that I would've made it myself if I'd found Ito's work some other way;
- From "Tripas" by Brandon Som, whose work I could read and reread in absolute wonderment at its layers of multilingual meaning and sonic echoing and delicious smartness;
- "Upon Reading That Eric Dolphy Transcribed Even the Calls of Certain Species of Birds," by John Murillo;
- This essay by poet Gabrielle Rivera ("On a regular day, a day where I’ve got my 'brown butch thing' down, I’m a fly ghost in the world of men") ain't poetry, but it's somewhere nearby, even if the news-y title is lousy: "Fat-Booty Butch Wears Leggings — Confuses World, Confronts Self."