from the m notebooks
BY CAROLINA EBEID
I come from a long line of Miriams.
Let line be a footpath out of thickets.
The words sea and bitter make up my name.
Someone says, good morning, Miriam and
the bitter in me turns its pulsing head,
the sea in me turns—
What would you bury / plant here?
the box of milk teeth
or quiet ashes
or quiet hatchets
for a line of lustral trees
What plants are native to your area?
afraid love wakefulness ashamed sorry
Terrace? Greenhouse? Backyard garden? Window?
I learned of the woman who plants flowers
in tear gas canisters, hanging gardens
In my girlhood, I was afraid of the divine
calling, that I would be called, and that the call
would trek closer among the other night noises—
Look up. Traje de luces night / Gold threads.
See? / The fighter skewers his own glinting
torso upon the bull / bulwark / blood work.
Describe nightfall in terminologies
of water / the liters of it / in waves,
the copper ewers of it / night measured
in bayous and in glacial lakes / night streams
in from under / the door / glittering I
can hardly look / no never was an age dark.
scripts for the future
BY CAROLINA EBEID
once more the chatter around town will be of blindness
all the ghosts are Russian ghosts at this party
the law here is to sing
take comfort in believing no thought-bubble tarries above
your head for all the brethren to read
streaming a documentary on the history of the sun
since eyes evolved to see underwater
do you prefer photos of landscapes or photos of people
you choose the figure for god among the lavish
descriptions of polar deserts
information clouds known as the neobeautiful
watching a four minute video on how to draw blood
samples with a butterfly needle
you’ll all have gone ancestral
say to them you were changed into a heliotropic plant
then back to a woman then a plant again
the unlucky women carry too much yellow bile
what was paleozoic sunlight like
that soul begins in the liver
take the vexing thought to the anagram machine
net worth will metamorphose into a wet thorn
there’s a cherry tree at the center of puberty
I’ll tell you what your “about” shall be
a chlorine hand wash before entering the airport
love’s written all over your face, love
see the incredible footage that has emerged
Carolina Ebeid is a student in the PhD program in creative writing at the University of Denver, and holds an MFA from the Michener Center for Writers. She has won fellowships and prizes from CantoMundo, Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference, the Stadler Center for Poetry, and the National Endowment for the Arts. Her first book will be published by Noemi Press’ Akrilica series. Recent work appears in Linebreak, Bennington Review, jubilat, and in the inaugural Ruth Stone House Reader.
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