Vol. 7 No. 2

Fall 2024

Aperture 4
Editor's Note
My Pointe Shoes and Journals Shared a Box Under My Bed
The White Light of Universal Upload, Etc., Etc.,
Mother-Me
A Portrait of the Patient with Anxiety and Cheshire Cat Grin
Aperture 1
Changing the daisies
Accidental Poetry
Rotaried Darkness
Tocolytic Haze
Le temps [Time]
The Disinfectant Girl
Wildfire
Mimosa Pudica
Le temps [Time]
We tore out the garden
Love Sponge
Screw
La natura non ha fretta (eppure tutto si realizza) [Nature is in no rush (and yet everything gets done)]
Aesthesia
Velvet
Worn
La natura non ha fretta (eppure tutto si realizza) [Nature is in no rush (and yet everything gets done)]
Loss
Spaghetti
Ode to My Brand-Name Birth Control
Unless
Incessant Spring Rain
On My Birthday
Degrees of Separation
Iago
Loves Me Some Pizza
A May Morning
The Refugee Camp
When The Spring Sun Shines
Autobiography of Black and White
The Fourth Dimension
Evolution
Echoes of Elders I
Bedside Manner
What I Fear to Discover
We Use Acetone to Clean Beakers as If We Still Prize Purity
Echoes of Elders II
River Song 2
What Otherwise You Might Forget
Flying Lessons
Echoes of Elders III
Who Were You in a Dream?
Roxbury, 1968
Foresight
Mourning
Pain is a Dagger Burning into my Heart
To a Departed Pekingese
Faces
My Daughter, the Volcano
The Apartment, In Its Resting State
Souvenirs
Day of the Goose
Orchid Shadows
Lugubrious
Hide-and-Seek
When the Girl with the Golden Ball rejects young Ewan McGregor’s praise
Pose of Glances
The sky as we (don’t) know it
The Dustrunners
Changed Landscape
Cherry Blossoms
Passages
Migration
Zephyr Sighs
Little Criminals
In August
The Tree of Life
Glyph Aubade
Gravidas
prayer, it might be called

Roxbury, 1968

Just passing by on my way to breakfast
I could tell it was Earl from the HPI,
the History of my friend’s Present Illness
up high on the auditorium’s chalkboard
at BCH, all those multiple admissions
to Boston City Hospital for liver disease
and pancreatitis, his left hand and forearm
shot off in Korea. We used to go out singing
and drinking in run-down neighborhoods,
me doing a white baritone, him strumming
on my Spanish guitar, a matchbook cover
folded in his metal claw. In the early Sixties
we played folk music in dark living rooms
where they sang along drinking cheap wine
in paper cups and bitter beer in the can.
Earl said he wanted to die on the hospital steps
and explode like a star. That was the last time
he took my guitar and I never saw either again.

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