Editor’s Note: We want to introduce our new poetry editor Joe Pan, who will select a poem to feature once a month on Hyperallergic. Pan grew up along the Space Coast of Florida, attended the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and is the founder of Brooklyn Arts Press, an independent publishing house. His debut book of poetry, Autobiomythography & Gallery, was named Best First Book of the Year by Coldfront Magazine. His work has appeared in such places as Art World, Boston Review, Cimarron Review, Denver Quarterly, Epiphany, Glimmer Train, Hyperallergic, and The New York Times. He lives in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.
For his inaugural selection, he has picked a poem by Joanna Fuhrman.
* * *
I am not brave, despite
and Miley Cyrus does not
give me advice
on whining techniques or
eye shadow use,
despite my Twitter pleadings
To be honest, complaining
comes naturally to me,
like reindeer ornaments
to aqua tinsel trees.
I am not kidding you
when I marvel
at the appeal of sleep,
how I never grow tired of it,
despite so many hours lost
under its spell.
What I love most is to feel
all the pillows
congregating under me,
from both sides of the bed
and to feel the sun, not too
warm on one side of my face,
when I fall asleep on the ocean-
blue picnic blanket, with my wallet
bundled safely under my ribs.
Unfortunately, most days, I am a little
to be completely myself.
The city is an obese rabbit
that lives in my chest,
slurping my veins with its mile-long tongue,
chewing my heart
with its saw-toothed
robot brain tumor,
and the laundry machine is,
um, you know,
a laundry machine.
It’s always quacking at me
quack quack quack quack
in the mouth
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