Hybrid Poetry by Marie Chambers
Verbs begin to spiral from her mouth and coil outward into the sky.
Verbs begin to spiral from her mouth and coil outward into the sky.
Bruce is reading Wuthering Heights, I’m curling up with Numerical Semigroups.
This is not a story in your mind. You were really that girl. She was already you.
Oh, but she did not love Bees. She felt no desire for honey.
There are no signposts here; I can no longer remember the names of my children.
Days like this I feel like a Russian doll: a body carved inside a body.
The daughter’s memory is a cove, where unexpected fragments of a school play wash up against a burnt tabletop.
My merman came to shore for a quick kiss and a breath of fresh air, swam back to his ocean lair, murky depths, seaweed tangled in his hair.
Everything grows in its own way, which can’t be justified or condemned. I danced while I could, then I couldn’t...
Gulls, redacted from flight, from piping new trajectories (for a second), are close by, unseen—humanity’s cue: respect the quite before the storm.