#caroline cabrera

[bostonpoetryslam]

sunlight travels eight minutes to reach us this is nothing to sneeze at instead sneeze with no particular intention pick a spot you like and glow there

Caroline Cabrera, “Why do some underwater creatures light up?,” via Poetry Daily

[lifeinpoetry]

I contemplate less impactful ways to disappear into a forest.

I am giving myself a little wooden anniversary. I dig deeper into the part of me made sad

— Caroline Cabrera, from “Remnants” published in Foundry

[tinyghosthands]

1. Heather Christle

2. Chŏng Chi-yong, translated by Emily Jungmin Yoon, “Lake 1″

3. St. Vincent, “Smoking Section”

4. Carrie Lorig, from The Blood Barn

5. Caroline Cabrera, from “Dear Sensitive Beard”

6. Emily Kendal Frey, from “You Are Already Doing It”

7. The Office, 4.03 / 4.04

[salttigerpress]

Part of me has lived forever part of me is already dying

Caroline Cabrera, from Saint X, in Birdfeast 13. Read it in full HERE.

[salttigerpress]

For six months men pointed at my face and discussed what a shame it would be to cut into it. In the end I kept my tumor, my tiny, soft-tissue twin. Shark twin, Cameron. I am never alone. They cut out my mother’s uterus and sewed the rest of her organs into place. I am sorry to have wrecked her womb. Sorrier to tell her secrets here.  Mother, I have laid you open by existing.

excerpt from Caroline Cabrera’s Saint X in Phantom. Read the full excerpt HERE.

[mortalpractice]

remember that your love is me and I built a mountain out of all the ways we cannot understand another body your love is me and you are a mountain

Caroline Cabrera, from “Mountains,” published in Nightblock

[lunchboxpoems]

LANDSCAPE IS PARTLY ABOUT WHO YOU ARE

The cutest mammals are killers of the right things. My cat takes an unmistakable pleasure in eviscerating a lizard. I moved him from lizards and he eviscerates nothing, but cries, maniacally to be combed. Dogs look at you with their sad dog eyes. A neighborhood is defined by the park it surrounds. When you go out into the neighborhood, do you feel a part of it? Or a passer-through leering at other people’s ripe gardens? And when you sit on your porch? One type of anxiety is reading your book intently so as not to say hello. Another is knowing the lock sounds of all your neighbors’ cars. Another lying awake at night with pains you invent, never convinced of their unreality. I woke last week too many times and stayed woken, bathed. The doorknob broke off the bathroom door and I resigned myself to live there forever. Old linoleum became my neighborhood and I wondered how to exist always in a hard place. To free yourself from anywhere, you must remember simple machines. I do not mean your hands, but that’s a start.

CAROLINE CABRERA

[thedollhousereads]

Also at DH #47:

Caroline Cabrera is author of The Bicycle Year (H_NGM_N BKS 2015), Flood Bloom (H_NGM_N BKS 2013), and the chapbook, Dear Sensitive Beard (dancing girl press 2012). She currently lives in Denver. All the deets here.