Issue 14 • 2011



from a sequence entitled
     the unfinished year


by Anne Blonstein







having bought one another


they could     

splice the distance between

kitchen     and bed     


their yellow dreambook     


they shelled ripe judgements


in order that these elements have a chance to

breathe     to expand     


through the galvanized mouths suspended from her ears

a wind that had cooled the fingers

of an english rabbi’s daughter scraping parchment

for proscribed talmuds


they sharpened reciprocal instruments     


to prepare an uninterrupted salad

of past and future : save some remnants

of the present as the promise

for a recipe marinated in after the familiar








on the night she can only serve up

mangled rabbit     with sarcasm

she might wear     a lost gold necklace



— hair shiny with wasted nitrogen


we need to let the phantoms

come     we need to leave

to approach     the secrets —


run in a broken stiletto

bearing the gene for a fascinated ear

until she lies down where a child has cried

into torn stockings


hired shins — virus-won — necrotized —


when the lights went out

in white a girl played with squares

as a book floated by on

pearl ash the bird of heaven stopped singing








has she ever danced     in a storm

of cadmium sulphide     along the edge

of subject matter?


kestrel swinging low

into webcam


gives access to another reality

than that     which inspired it


has she ever needed a dream     only to discover

that snow settling on grey matter

sculptures a thought

with wings?


kilimanjaro’s smoky light

invades finish


has she never     creeping behind

an altarpiece     scraped gold     from an angel’s

eyelash     mixed it with nitrogenous dimensions     

titrated them     (alice-like)     into a racist’s tea?








the body tries     and the body tries     

but when a self transforms into the possibility

of its unselfing     and the selves of the body

scorn one another


autogenic destruction



capitalism compels us

to work ourselves

to death

to stuff our houses

with things we don’t need


headaches then



ancestrally driven responses antagonize

directed reading


in rembrandt’s first self-portrait

the face veiled by shadow as if

the artist already knew inner struggle

breaks down with exposure to a garrulous light








she finds a head blossoming with white tangles

as if fear trees had been planted there

that she might scatter concept blossoms

for other eyes

to unravel




typing denatured read


archives daily     



To love objects is     

to love life


from ashes to asparagus


now ingests

seasonal nonsuchness


rehearses a decompositional mind that

consciousness might dissolve into verb     dresses each

line in translucent mixtures of eggwhite

and polonium     as if grace could follow aberration









Anne Blonstein is the author of four chapbooks and five full-length collections.  Her most recent publications are memory’s morning (Shearsman Books, 2008), correspondence with nobody (Ellectrique Press, 2008) and the butterflies and the burnings (Dusie Press, 2009).  She is also a contributor to Infinite Difference: Other Poetries by U.K. Women Poets (ed. Carrie Etter, Shearsman Books, 2010).