Exquisite Corpse - Issue 3
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by Gwendolyn Albert


the iceberg sinks a little in the spring...

the iceberg sinks a little in the spring
when the pale blue horizon recedes through
my thumbs I feel snaps in my tendons a wand
of ink fountains a fist dissolves wire
dissolves satellites back of our ears
heavy stench of our animal oils
nude to the waist with the sun going down
and the iceberg starting to silhouette rise
it's cold in here but I love when it melts
when the hot dry lips of a spring summer day
find the ice and it burns beyond heat like a
bomb like the radiant plosions I play in my
brain have you noticed?
the lump
             has gone from my throat
and moved to the base of my skull


archaeology of self

In the Rosetta stone of your face
I find the divet, the unexplained

and inexplicable crater that
prevents further translation

you will not allow my fingers
and shy away gripping

your lips like a cat flicking
its ears, tail lashing

I have invaded you
now a little to forget

the gaping excavation
of my self-cleaning sewer

from which life surges forth
microscopic and sweet

seizing us by the throats and
dragging us into the mines

from whence these layers of dust
silt over the everyday surface

dance at my wedding
cry at my funeral

be on my team for
a thousand years

come prowl the range
with your divet face

the range of my

sunken mountains

detritus of self

the valorizing alcohol

clears the slide for micron managed

view of the seas of agony
or guilt inherited like tax

grandmother was an orphan

all the loneliness of paper

shuffled around in cascading files

sticking by me everywhere I live

don't move it, leave it where it is
a child's remembrance casting back

to grandmother as ancient goddess

moving the treadle and thread

so have pity on the owners

of these buildings and the dead

earth under foundations fragile

balconies looming

over the head

of the landlord


to enjoy

the storm

resting internally the blue fight

resting internally the blue fight
skims over morning altitudes
the blue fight reveals an obscene
scar down the face of the internal city
where ghosts scour the benches of lingerers
raise up their glasses full of tears
salty the tears as they pump through the eyes
roll down the throat to the collarbone
so many tears from the internal city
blushing and baffled the metallic taste
from so much regret as the absence of loss
loss of a loss how can one lament
such a thing even if internal manhole
covers sail off powered always by tears
and rooftops shake with hairline fractures
I need you to hold my hand now
Cadavar Exquisito
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