Back to Issue Seventeen.

from the m notebooks



I come from a long line of Miriams.
Let line be a footpath out of thickets.

The words sea and bitter make up my name.
Someone says, good morning, Miriam and

the bitter in me turns its pulsing head,
the sea in me turns—

What would you bury / plant here?

the box of milk teeth
or quiet ashes
or quiet hatchets
for a line of lustral trees

What plants are native to your area? 

afraid love wakefulness ashamed sorry

Terrace? Greenhouse? Backyard garden? Window? 

I learned of the woman who plants flowers
in tear gas canisters, hanging gardens

In my girlhood, I was afraid of the divine
calling, that I would be called, and that the call
would trek closer among the other night noises—

Look up. Traje de luces night / Gold threads.
See? / The fighter skewers his own glinting
torso upon the bull / bulwark /  blood work.

Describe nightfall in terminologies
of water / the liters of it /  in waves,
the copper ewers of it / night measured

in bayous and in glacial lakes / night streams
in from under / the door / glittering I
can hardly look / no never was an age dark.



scripts for the future



once more the chatter around town will be of blindness

all the ghosts are Russian ghosts at this party

the law here is to sing

take comfort in believing no thought-bubble tarries above
your head for all the brethren to read

streaming a documentary on the history of the sun

since eyes evolved to see underwater

do you prefer photos of landscapes or photos of people

you choose the figure for god among the lavish
descriptions of polar deserts

information clouds known as the neobeautiful

watching a four minute video on how to draw blood
samples with a butterfly needle

you’ll all have gone ancestral

say to them you were changed into a heliotropic plant
then back to a woman then a plant again

the unlucky women carry too much yellow bile

what was paleozoic sunlight like

that soul begins in the liver

take the vexing thought to the anagram machine

net worth will metamorphose into a wet thorn

there’s a cherry tree at the center of puberty

I’ll tell you what your “about” shall be

a chlorine hand wash before entering the airport

love’s written all over your face, love

see the incredible footage that has emerged


Carolina Ebeid is a student in the PhD program in creative writing at the University of Denver, and holds an MFA from the Michener Center for Writers. She has won fellowships and prizes from CantoMundo, Bread Loaf Writer’s Conference, the Stadler Center for Poetry, and the National Endowment for the Arts. Her first book will be published by Noemi Press’ Akrilica series. Recent work appears in LinebreakBennington Review, jubilat, and in the inaugural Ruth Stone House Reader.

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