Giamila Fantuzzi, “The End of Binary”

Giamila Fantuzzi is a teacher and researcher in the Department of Kinesiology and Nutrition at the University of Illinois at Chicago. She is the author of Body Messages: The Quest for the Proteins of Cellular Communication (Harvard University Press, 2016) and of several scientific articles about inflammation. Her short essays appeared in Intima: A Journal of Narrative Medicine, and Pulse: Voices from the Heart of Medicine. She is currently working on a memoir about love and illness.

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The End of Binary

On this fine autumn morning
What ever happened to blue and green?
It’s beauty blush, golden glow, and soft peach up in the sky,
A dash of chablis for the grownups.
There is sepia, contessa, husk, and indochine
Down in the woods,
A touch of moss thrown in a corner for those who need comfort.
On this fine autumn morning
What the heck happened to blue and green?
This world.
This crazy world.
This crazy world of beauty.

 


 

 

 

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J. I. Kleinberg

A Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, J. I. Kleinberg is coeditor of 56 Days of August (Five Oaks Press, 2017) and Noisy Water: Poetry from Whatcom County, Washington (Other Mind Press, 2015) and coproduces the Bellingham-based SpeakEasy poetry series. Her poetry has appeared in One, Diagram, Otoliths, Psaltery & Lyre, and elsewhere. She lives in Bellingham, Washington, and blogs most days at chocolateisaverb.wordpress.com and thepoetrydepartment.wordpress.com.

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This Cloth

This folding and refolding of clouds, this rippled quilt of sea
pulled to shore and away—this is not the work of a god I believe in,
only a cinematic trick, a way to speak of the unfathomable,
distract eye and heart from bodies bloodied and fallen
in a synagogue, at a concert—oh, any place bodies can huddle
in a moment’s hope or grief. The cloth of us ripped and frayed,
every thread torn from itself, warp from weft. And still,
here is what we do: collect the threads, pick the strands of light
from darkness, hold the gnarled ball in open palms to gather
our tears and then, slow as autumn’s night absorbs light,
we begin to weave.