Product Placement: Almost Albino
Because I know her heart, I have peered inside it. I have listened to it nightly,
its plenitudes and aches. I have used it carelessly and sometimes with malice.
I have wanted to vanish it within my lust. I have wanted to crush it and hold it fast
and make it call the winter. And I’ve wanted to disappear at times within her
or our love, which is alien to us both, for it is the unnameable thing we make.
Because I know her desire, I know what she craves the most. By name it is
the Hermes Birkin Bag which, to me, appears to be only a bag, and yet I read
that it is impeccably designed by one artisan alone, the average taking
some 18 hours to complete, from design, to cutting the finest materials,
to assembling the final product, down to the last stitch. Yet there is no average.
The price range begins at $12,000 and, at top, a quarter mil. Some styles boast
a waiting list of six years or more. Ours is somewhere in between. A pre-original,
it was recently an unblemished, farm-raised alligator, fed fish and duck all its life.
Its recessive gene has produced a skin that is almost albino, a sort of pale green
translucence of virginal Earth. Its mother, the one at Disney World what snatched
the bathing child and stashed the body like Moses among the reeds.
What would we sacrifice for such a thing as the Hermes Birkin Bag? What might
we endure to possess it? I have seen people in suits of nails detonate in schoolyards
for their love. I find this so impulsive that it cannot satisfy an ancient god.
How ordinary and cheap to give one’s life, a life that would be taken anyway
by the great collector of our fears, that nothing will remain of us, even love,
even blood and waste. The clear skies and stars offer nothing next
to the fetishized object of affection. Something real. More than idea.
Something for which, should my name come up on their gilded list,
we shall claim as a kind of immortality, though it will ruin us forever,
and force us into the street. We shall have it to show, to fill our cup
and when the world begins to disappear, we shall climb inside and zip it up.
Darren Morris’s other publications include: The American Poetry Review, The Missouri Review, The Southern Review, New England Review, North American Review, The National Poetry Review, Best New Poets, and many others.
November. Thanksgiving and family, feasts
and failures. My friend the therapist says
everyone’s issue with the holidays is the gap
between the happiness one is supposed to
feel and the reality of one’s own family life.
A perfectionist, she lives alone; every room
of her house reveals her mastery. I think I
should declare myself an imperfectionist.
Another friend emails: his dying sister says
she’s squandered her life and he tells her
we all do, no one’s up to the marvel it is.
He doesn’t know if she believes him.
My sister, who always turned away from
the pain of others, now diagnosed with
Alzheimers’, has begun to remember it:
our father going to work each day at a job
he hated, a family her young family knew
dying in a fire. Losing the present, her
past is transformed, a part of her she’d
kept imprisoned surfacing, crying out.
In a dream last night I resurrect a dead
woman and kill off her surviving lover.
The mourner is as lost as the mourned.
Fear and suffering all around me, I wake,
like Hopkins, to the fell of dark. I realize,
imperfectionist, one just has to live.
Sandra Kohler’s third collection of poems, Improbable Music, (Word Press) appeared in May 2011. Earlier collections are The Country of Women (Calyx, 1995) and The Ceremonies of Longing (University of Pittsburgh Press, 2003). Her poems have appeared recently in Beloit Poetry Journal, Tar River Poetry, Damfino, and Mantis.
Things are changing here at Clementine Unbound.
Since the election of Trump and the resulting threats to our country and constitution, I’ve decided to devote less time to this site and more time to political activism, but I still want to keep Clementine Unbound going. With that in mind, I’m taking submissions again but publishing poems in an unscheduled way (more like a blog), rather than in monthly issues.
There will no longer be a printed journal, since that takes too much time. And I won’t be sending out notices of new issues. I apologize for all these “downgrades,” but there’s only so much time in a day.
Thank you for caring about little old Clementine. I won’t be sending out monthly emails anymore, but you can follow us like any WordPress blog.
Click the Submissions tab and follow the instructions there to submit your work.
Inside the Payola Lounge,
past the Wall of Balls glowing and spinning
out dreams in Acid Lime, Galaxy Blue, Sling-
shot Red, our parents drink
perpetual vodka tonics and chain-smoke
the cowboy cigarette.
My brother and I patrol the lanes, he looking
for what? A girl, an open beer. Me,
the intention, the aim, the follow-through.
Between these ordered lines, more than a sense
of direction: a clear, undisputed path,
tiny inlaid arrows eager to guide your way.
Who wouldn’t welcome certainty, its faith
so hypnotic? The destruction, crash, and groan
only manufactured thunder. Then suddenly—
rolling back into your open hands—a spare,
a second chance. In this world everything that gets
knocked down will get picked up again.
Candace Pearson’s poems have appeared in leading journals and anthologies nationwide. A multiple Pushcart Prize nominee, she won the Liam Rector First Book Prize for Poetry for her collection, Hour of Unfolding. She scratches out her work in an old hiker’s cabin in the San Gabriel foothills, north of Los Angeles.
An Extra Day with My Mother
We take the dog for a walk.
I keep my hands in my pockets.
There is nothing empty here.
In the airport bathroom
the panic seems a year
We keep rituals:
smooth glass on a sill,
blooming crocuses in the yard.
Maybe it’s one of those things
you grow into
Carly Taylor is a Boulder, Colorado native educated in Creative Writing and Dance at Knox College in Illinois and now thoroughly enjoying the constant rain of the Pacific Northwest. When she’s not writing, she’s doing something else.
Judy Kaber is a retired elementary school teacher. Her poems have been published in a number of journals, both print and electronic, including The Guardian, Off the Coast, Eclectica, and The Café Review. Her contest credits include the Maine Postmark Poetry Contest in 2009, the Larry Kramer Memorial Chapbook Contest in 2011, and, most recently, second place in the 2016 Muriel Craft Bailey Contest judged by Marge Piercy. Judy lives in Maine, heats with wood, and likes to kayak on the stream behind her house.
In love in the gently respectful way
some people have, they’d wake, each holiday,
in London (they’d no children of their own,
just nephews calling on Christmas Day),
and they’d drive on Boxing Day, two hundred miles
and more, to the headland they’d known
in youth, youth with all there’d been, the cliff top,
and the surge, the roar, of the Irish Sea
in their faces, their hearts, rushing to
the fraught part of them that had known
London and routine, had stayed gracious, kind,
but now wanted that gulping of Atlantic air
each Boxing Day, the hugeness, wildness,
the clung-to nonsuburban things, a faith,
a reassurance. And then, at dusk,
the calm, slow-breathing, long drive home.
Robert Nisbet is a Welsh poet who has over two hundred publications in Britain and around forty in the United States. His one chapbook is Merlin’s Lane (Prolebooks, 2011).