September 2010

From “Love, an Index”

A new poem

by Rebecca Lindenberg

Gloss, a word is not an epitaph but it is not the thing

    it signifies, either. Except perhaps: the Word,

    which may be why it was there in the beginning

    and was God.

Greece, philosophers and athletes, white garments

    and tragedy masks. In Delphi there’s a mountain

    fringed with red poppies and where we walked

    a goat-herder listened to his iPod and to his goats,

    their spangled bells.

Guilt, not a feeling but a way

    of perceiving the fact that I didn’t

    tell you to stay in Yakushima, or go straight

    to Okinawa, skip the side trip. If you can’t stop

    seeing this way, you become the king

    who had to put out his eyes.

Guitar, covered in bumper stickers such as “I Heart

    Mormon Pussy” and “Dip Me In Honey &

    Throw Me to the Lesbians” and “Jerry Falwell

    Can Suck My Tinky-Winky” and on which

    you played “Hallelujah” so, so soft and slow.


Tear Gas, it was Labor Day in Colombia. Parades

    of people all in yellow. We took the funicular

    up to Monserrate, you caught the little boy

    trying to pick your pocket. You just teased him.

    We walked down the winding path they said

    teemed with bandits. No bandits.

    On our way to visit the man who sells emeralds

    we found ourselves in an alley blocked by riot police.

    We turned down another street and I said

    What’s that smell? It’s like air freshener—

    We have to go, you said. This way. Right now.

We hope you enjoy this excerpt.

To read the full piece, please visit our store to purchase a copy of the magazine.

Rebecca Lindenberg’s poems have appeared in Colorado Review, Denver Quarterly, Gulf Coast, Barrow Street, POOL, No Tell Motel, and elsewhere. She currently holds a fellowship from the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center.

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