A Poem By Nuar Alsadir

by Mark Bibbins, Editor

Morning

when dark, is not that,
morning, but more like rain:

a sky of smog-stuck potatoes;
frustration without eyes.

The way I did nothing exhausted me:
I fed the wall,

ran water over my body
until it swirled down the drain.

On a determinable plane
I am undetermined,

on a moving train,
unable to find a seat.

The edge is what knows me,
the face half-carved off,

the gutter that gathers its objects
like knives, without connection,

here what is not there and vice versa.
I lie. I have seven jars of lies:

one for each day and the joy!
of repetition. Weeks redouble

and hold me still, anchors sprout
from my feet, stand in for will.

Desire is the lie I tell on Tuesday.
I tell it with my socks off

to be understood. The color
of intent is the crispness of bread;

whoever wants the heel
comes last to the table.

Nuar Alsadir’s first collection of poems, More Shadow Than Bird, is forthcoming with Salt Press. Her poems have appeared in The Kenyon Review, Grand Street, Ploughshares, and Slate. She is on the faculty at NYU and is training to become a psychoanalyst. She lives in Brooklyn.

“Where,” you are asking yourself, “can I find some more poetry?” Perhaps we can point you in this direction, to The Poetry Section’s vast archive. You may contact the editor at [email protected].