after Mark Twain
Last night I walk so far across the tide that I think I see stars floating. When it gets cold I sleep with the tigers since they smell sweet from eating strawberries. It is not safe to trust me with a moon that belongs to something else. There are too many stars in some places and not enough in others. I wish I could put some in my hair. I follow an experiment around. I am more curious about it than the others but I only talk to myself because I know I am interesting. All day it sits in the tree. I think it’s a reptile but it may be architecture. At first I am scared but I only see it try to catch the pretty little fish in the pond. On Sunday, it hides from me. It says I talk too much. When I bring it an apple it turns me out into the rain. It says apples will harm us but what harm matters if it dislikes me? I gather flowers to clothe myself. I lay a stick on the ground and try to make a hole in it with another. A spirit rises and turns into pink dust. When I touch it pain surges through my finger. I want to show the experiment what I have found but he is not interested in useless beautiful things. I see a star melt down the sky. That means they can all melt.
Simona Blat is a poet, writer, publisher, and teacher. She was born in Riga, Latvia, and holds an MFA in Poetry from Columbia University where she received the Linda Corrente Fellowship. She is the founding editor of the Brazenhead Review and the host of Dead Pete’s Society, a monthly poetry reading held at Pete’s Candy Store in Brooklyn. Her writing has appeared in The Brooklyn Rail, The Fanzine, Artillery Magazine, Hello Mr., and elsewhere. Her most recent chapbook, Funeral, was handset and letter-pressed at Pixel Press in London. She currently lives in Brooklyn and teaches at NYU.
Cover Photo by Scott Wylie