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The Death of Henry Kissinger
Anything that flies, on anything that moves.
You got that?
Bubbles children blow toward the sky burst bombs into jasmines.
And a mother’s golden lotus bud orbiting her daughter’s neck?
In Takeo, at the edge of the forest, if the spot-billed duck were to lay an egg—
I take the R from 86th St to teach poetry
in Manhattan. My hands sweat
on Cruel Radiance. The front cover: photograph of a girl
the Khmer Rouge executed, one of many
children presumed counterrevolutionary enemies,
as the soiled descendants of such. My chest heaves. To everyone
on the train I do not say, All the sobbing inside of me,
all of it you know now! But you don’t know
what I am called! Aneakajun––traitor of my roots.
Instead, I catch the N across the platform, continue
reading about S-21. We were not inside
those prisons: they were. Our hells
almost certainly are not theirs. A white girl
with a streak of blue hair falls flat
on her back. Her head a bowling ball
close to my foot. Her head a bowling ball that rolls
on the floor. I look up
from reading cozy existential atmosphere (Adorno’s
words) and there, a white girl on the ground––
breathing, breathing. Breathing.
Someone call 911! Someone press the emergency button!
Someone pull the girl up! Now
she is sitting, telling someone she’s on her way
to 23rd St as the train screeches to my stop on 8th.
Doors open. I see how the distinction between
victim and executioner becomes blurred.
I want to cancel class. Because why? So I can sob
about the killing fields and how aneakajun feels?
I’d rather do that today. My head could be a bowling ball too.
I could fall over from this too.
* * *
Monica Sok is a Cambodian American poet and the daughter of former refugees. Her work has been recognized with a Discovery Prize from the 92nd Street Y Unterberg Poetry Center. She is the recipient of fellowships and residencies from Hedgebrook, the Elizabeth George Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, Kundiman, Jerome Foundation, MacDowell Colony, Saltonstall Foundation, and others. Currently, Sok is a 2018–2020 Wallace Stegner Fellow at Stanford University and also teaches poetry at Banteay Srei in Oakland. Her book A Nail the Evening Hangs On is forthcoming from Copper Canyon Press in 2020.
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Through “Historic Site,” an 8-foot-tall plaque and Historic Sight, a year-long rotating exhibition in Pittsburgh, the Black Cube Fellows investigate how history is constructed, remembered, and retold.
Lawson’s images, and the ways that she has discussed her process, seem to be actively reproducing the kind of big-dick energy power dynamics of White male artists who also claim mastery over their subject matter.
Jenkins’s new short film, the centerpiece of a MoMI exhibit on The Underground Railroad, uses his signature techniques to confront the viewer.
Romanticism to Ruin: Two Lost Works of Sullivan and Wright memorializes Chicago’s Garrick Theatre and Buffalo’s Larkin Building, which were razed to build a parking lot and a truck stop.