Send in the clouds. Bring down the rain.
Shut all the blinds, turn out the lights:
I feel insane when you get in my bed


Seth Adelsberger

Adelsberger's work will be on display at Civilian Art Projects (406 7th Street, wdc) from February 13 through March 14, 2009.

The Consequences of Wife-Swapping With a Giant
-- by Denise Duhamel

There was a giant who was particularly fond of humans.
He camped near them, his lice -- white bears and white wolves.
He drank whole lakes when he grew thirsty
and generated winds throughout Siberia. He once fell in love
with an Inuk woman, and since he was already married,
convinced the woman's husband to swap his wife
for the giant's. The husband was tempted by the thought
of enormous green female genitals
and agreed without asking his wife's opinion. The giant
picked up the woman in his palm and blew back her hair
with a sigh. The man swam in the folds of the female giant's vulva
and she barely knew he was there. He disappeared
in her vagina and was never seen again.
Although he tried to be kind, the giant
split the woman in half. He returned to his giant wife,
the one he was made for. As they kissed,
ice floes cracked. The whole ground shook.


Yellow Tulips
-- by Eileen Myles

I was walking along the sidewalk
in all the daily pain
& miserable faces & awful air.
Up above in a flower box
were yellow tulips, too real
to be real, so big
and sexual looking in
that funny way flowers
always are. I guess
they were like heads
poking in from another
world. How do you
like Wednesday, you
beautiful things?


On the Back Porch
-- by Dorianne Laux

The cat calls for her dinner.
On the porch I bend and pour
brown soy stars into her bowl,
stroke her dark fur.
It's not quite night.
Pinpricks of light in the eastern sky.
Above my neighbor's roof, a transparent
moon, a pink rag of cloud.
Inside my house are those who love me.
My daughter dusts biscuit dough.
And there's a man who will lift my hair
in his hands, brush it
until it throws sparks.
Everything is just as I've left it.
Dinner simmers on the stove.
Glass bowls wait to be filled
with gold broth. Sprigs of parsley
on the cutting board.
I want to smell this rich soup, the air
around me going dark, as stars press
their simple shapes into the sky.
I want to stay on the back porch
while the world tilts
toward sleep, until what I love
misses me, and calls me in.