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Prelude to Bruise
Saeed Jones
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- English
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eBook - ePub
Prelude to Bruise
Saeed Jones
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About This Book
- Jones is the editor of BuzzfeedLGBT and had an enormous audience both there and on social media (10k followers), as well as terrific connections in the poetry world
- Jones is a frequent guest of reading series (he headlined the Rumpus/Guernica holiday party with Geoff Dyer) and tireless self-promoter. He has fans, and he likes to get in front of them
- Jones' background speaks to so many different communities: he is a gay black Buddhist, raised in the South and California, and his poetry is deeply informed by what all those identities mean as they compete with and support each other
- Jones fits in nicely on our list, and should appeal to readers of Patricia Smith (she's a fan of his, and they share a similar slam poetry energy)
- The book, unlike much poetry, progresses through time, giving readers somewhat of a narrative to carry them along
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LiteraturaSubtopic
Poesía americanaINSOMNIAC
Small with wild legs, the boy stole your eyes
the day he was born.
In a language you’ve tried to keep
from him, your name is mother of sorrows.
When he does not answer your latest call, dream
him grown and gone: far off, a vial of your tears
on his nightstand.
In the autumn of his blood, he will siphon your hurt
to a child dying of thirst; the only inheritance
of worth in the village of your synapses.
But—for now—he’s still your boy. Sweet little
wreck. Check the room you’ve locked him in.
CLOSET OF RED
In place of no, my leaking mouth spills foxgloves.
Trumpets of tongued blossoms litter the locked closet.
Up to my ankles in petals, the hanged gowns close in,
mother multiplied, more—there’re always more
corseted ghosts, red-silk bodies crowd
my mouth. I would say no, please;
I would say sorry, Papa; I would never
ask for mother again, but dresses dressed
in dresses are dresses that own this garnet dark,
this mouth. These hands can’t find
the walls, only more mothers
emptied out.
THE BLUE DRESS
Her blue dress is a silk train is a river
is water seeps into the cobblestone streets of my sleep, is still raining
is monsoon brocade, is winter stars stitched into puddles
is good-bye in a flooded, antique room, is good-bye in a room of crystal bowls
and crystal cups, is the ring-ting-ring of water dripping from the mouths
of crystal bowls and crystal cups, is the Mississippi River is a hallway, is leaks
like tears from windowsills of a drowned house, is windows open to waterfalls
is a bed is a small boat is a ship, is a current come to carry me in its arms
through the streets, is me floating in her dress through the streets
is only the moon sees me floating through the streets, is me in a blue dress
out to sea, is my mother is a moon out to sea.
ISAAC, AFTER MOUNT MORIAH
Asleep on the roof when rain comes,
water collects in the dips of his collarbone.
Dirty-haired boy, my rascal, my sacrifice. Never
an easy dream. I watch him wrestle my shadow, eyelids
trembling, one fist ready for me.
Leave him a blanket, leave him alone.
Night before, found him caked in dirt,
sleeping in a ditch; wet black stones for pillows.
What kind of father does he make me, this boy
I find tangled in the hair of willows, curled fetal
in the grove?
Once, I found him in a far field, the mountain’s peak
like a blade above us both.
PRETENDING TO DROWN
The only regret is that I waited
longer than a breath
to scatter the sun’s reflection
with my body.
New stars ...