Pulse (Hidden Bird)

Poetry Nick Flynn

Imagine a glass of water, a drop of blood sus- / pended—dead center—one drop, watch it / dissolve. I can’t tell the difference, not today, not / really, between this & / your body, faceup, in a pond, say, eyes closed, each pulsing / leaf. What else / are we here for, why are we this / & not nothing, you know, the big questions—& / what about our dead, what do we do / with them, we have to turn them in- / to something, right? Mine / never came back, mine keep coming / back, please, I beg you, open / your eyes, please, open your mouth, or let me / open it, please, there’s something I need / to taste. It’s so simple—lurking inside us is / a child, a real child, running with both / hands in the air, as if escaping a prison, laughing / now, the wall far behind her

“Each new issue feels like a public report from many individual private spheres.” —Antoine Wilson

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Issue 12



Winter 2011


Nick Flynn is the author of two memoirs, The Ticking Is the Bomb and Another Bullshit Night in Suck City, (both W.W. Norton & Company), and three books of poetry, Blind Huber, Some Ether, and the forthcoming The Captain Asks for a Show of Hands (Graywolf Press). ​


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