Formica-covered furniture petroleum smolder into the night
sky dragging Ikea bookcases and side tables onto the metro to
feed the bonfires. A tall African clad in white leaps over a
babel of burning rubble


Feed the sun fire, feed the sun language on the eve
of its weakening


Fire a particular way to dismember a thing. Compressed fibers
in particle board, notebook with laminate cover, receipts. Guts—
what was tender pulp consumed the quickest. What was tender—
your name x 10


My wrist aches when I write now. Notebook a record
of tiny lacerations


To feel the permutations of night that garden behind the
monastery. Heady youth bloom perfume of worklessness and
revolutionary romanticism. The city for a year expressed itself
as a utopia of women and the work-free


A scrap of paper loses its structure in flame garlanded
around the names Lampedusa/Gibraltar


My imagination will walk in the City of Women
for life, weaving garlands


Continuous impossibility mottled by encounter. A blue
Mediterranean promise


A generosity that opens out onto another form of being.
She stopped loving me


passenger /
Bad translator

Laura Jaramillo

Laura Jaramillo is a poet from Queens. She is author of Material Girl (subpress) and lives in Durham, North Carolina where she is a doctoral candidate in film studies at Duke University. She writes film and book criticism for local and national outlets. Her poems have been translated into Persian and Spanish.

Cover image by Sarah Meadows


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