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ADELAIDE Independent Monthly Literary Magazine / Revista Literária Independente Mensal, New York / Lisboa, Online Edition  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

IN THIS GREAT AND COMPLEX WORLD
by Carla Carlson

 

 

 

GREETING THE BUSINESSMAN AFTER INDIA

 

I have no say
over the sky’s

grey determinations.
My husband drives

a motorized toothbrush
into his mouth.

He’s still jet-lagged.
A problem is a thing

one must change.
A kiss. A volume.

In the darkness
of the bedroom

I feel my body
sinking into a coffin.

I move closer
to the sound of rain—

rich jingle of coins
on trucks and pavement.

 

 

 

 

IN THIS GREAT AND COMPLEX WORLD

 

I look at the rose
her thoughtful veins
like a special woman
who’s unrepentant
wrapped in crystal, stapled
in Manhattan, at the corner
of 44th and Park.
Noticed, she’s an eon
of silent arpeggios,
laughter, a gentle madness,
closer to beauty
at every angle her head
is turned.

 

 

 

 

THE MORNING AFTER WATCHING A FRENCH FILM

 

How silent is
the crowd of people
rising in apartments.

The way to sit
is known,
the way to eat,
the way to plant seeds.

I have in my own way
caused damage,
I tell myself. Each
person discovers what it is,
cleans the grit,
replaces the dead bulb.

A woman
is a world.
A man is a world.
Where they connect
is a third world.

My husband
desires a god.
Understanding such,
I soften. Here,
the future me writes—
look at Marie, who is blind
and deaf and locked.
I pass love through my hands
over his papery lips.

 

 

 

 

DAISY

 

Freezing, I am alone
on the lawn
before others rise
thinking time
is my domain.
I enjoy it. Somewhat.
Do you wish
for greater detail?
No. I presume
you’ll prefer I remain
a voice, as I wish
my masters to seem
forever strange.
I have come a long way
to tell you what you
can expect from me.
A young man wails.
He can’t breathe.
He can’t stop craving
noodles. The sky is
subversively blue.
My head throbs
in the sunshine.
This is what I wanted
to tell you—I cannot
change the world.

 

 

 

 

ANXIETY VS. LIGHT

 

I have no answer
when my son heaves down
in the chair across mine.
He taps his fingers—
Aristotle said
light is the activity
of what is transparent.
Who am I?
I’m wearing persimmon
because’s the sun’s reticent—
it’s how I make light.
The sky is blue
because molecules scatter
blue light more so than
red, orange, yellow.
At the river we are fascinated
by reflections on water,
red paint, peacock splotch.
What if he’d listen to me—
the woman who nursed him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About the Author:

Carla Carlson

Carla Carlson teaches poetry at The Writing Institute at Sarah Lawrence College where she earned her MFA in 2015. She is the author of the chapbook Love and Oranges, Finishing Line Press, and has poems published in print and online journals such as Statorec.com, The Mom Egg, Columbia Review, Prelude Magazine, and YES Poetry. She volunteers her time at the Hudson Valley Writers Center in Sleepy Hollow, NY, where she co-runs a submission cooperative. She lives in Bronxville, NY with her husband.

 

 

 

 

     
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