In Madrid with Pi­casso’s Guer­nica

The Iowa Review - - SHAINA MONET -

sharp-tongued, afloat in the door­way,

the tongue-less will fringe and press closer.

we won’t de­tect— never ex­pect the elec­tric,

bul­bous can­dle of eye— nor the sect of bod­ies

to fol­low. the be­fore and after. the planes.

the cilia num­bers. a tally of dashes—a sty

for hu­man, horse, bull— which breaks us?

abreast, we couldn’t see dig­its. atone none

in the gray—black and white. as line and form, we’re prone

to think this al­ways over. neu­tral and not. dis­lo­cated

lim­bus, geo­met­ric is war. is smoke?

is what a bro­ken neck or sword?

foot­falls in the frame. first, the rush, vi­bratile

over wails, then a can­dle through the door.

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