Aug 31, 2019
No one knows our bones but us. The way they rattle when they hear the wind winding away. The way they shiver with the rising tide.
Weight, by Daniel Blokh, published in The Adroit Journal
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No one knows our bones but us. The way they rattle when they hear the wind winding away. The way they shiver with the rising tide.
Weight, by Daniel Blokh, published in The Adroit Journal
I’m burning or made of fire. I’m still young. I don’t want your saving.
I don’t want to be put out yet. I close the windows
and pray in the fumes. Red light / red light /
red light.
— Daniel Blokh, from “What Fire Trucks Stop For and What They Don’t,” published in Yes Poetry
#red light
Daniel Blokh: What My Body Knows And What It Doesn't
What Fire Trucks Stop For and What They Don’t
What my body knows and what it doesn't.
This question always in the back of my head like a stove
I can’t turn off. What it knows: her hand against it.
The spider creep slow, nails cold, alarm blaring. Fire truck & skin & skin &
it’s ridiculous, but her hand seems to be made of wheels.
Her hand is feeding me my own blood, my own skin
& skin never runs out. Her hand has miles and miles to go
to destination. She smiles openmouthed, like she knows what my skin hides
and what to cook it into, what temperature. Like she knows every nerve’s secret
before I see it, knows what my body is and what it isn’t. Fire truck,
fire truck, I’m burning or made of fire. I’m still young. I don’t want your saving.
I don’t want to be put out yet. I close the windows
and pray in the fumes. Red light / red light /
red light.
This poem was originally published at SUSAN / The Journal.
Daniel Blokh is a 16-year-old American writer of Russian-Jewish descent, living in Birmingham, Alabama. He is the author of the memoir In Migration (BAM! Publishing 2016), the micro-chapbook The Wading Room (Origami Poems Project 2016), and the chapbook Grimmening (forthcoming from Diode Editions). His work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing awards and the Foyle Young Poet awards, and has appeared in DIALOGIST, Permafrost, Blueshift, Cleaver, Gigantic Sequins, Forage Poetry, Avis, Thin Air, Cicada, and more. He's bad at taking naps, which sucks, because he really needs a nap right now.
TWO POEMS / Daniel Blokh
WHAT FIRE TRUCKS STOP FOR AND WHAT THEY DON’T What my body knows and what it doesn't. This question always in the back of my head like a stove I can’t turn off. What it knows: her hand against it. The spider creep slow, nails cold, alarm blaring. Fire truck & skin & skin & it’s ridiculous, but her hand seems to be made of wheels. Her hand is feeding me my own blood, my own skin & skin never runs out. Her hand has miles and miles to go to destination. She smiles openmouthed, like she knows what my skin hides and what to cook it into, what temperature. Like she knows every nerve’s secret before I see it, knows what my body is and what it isn’t. Fire truck, fire truck, I’m burning or made of fire. I’m still young. I don’t want your saving. I don’t want to be put out yet. I close the windows and pray in the fumes. Red light / red light / red light. TO THE TOAD I HID IN MY ROOM FOR A NIGHT My son, that evening, I imagined lifetimes with you. My hands, cold and unwashed from carrying the wet green secret of you, left stains of dirt under my pillow. I didn’t notice. I drifted off, thinking I heard you singing from the cramped shoebox I turned into a home for you, stuffed with grass and dirt. I thought you could mistake our house for a country. My son, maybe home is easier said than done. Maybe the shoebox had a hole. Maybe the holy hymnal sound I heard was only the screen door squeaking open, the sound of your body lifting as my mother lowered the wet green secret of you to the soft ground, the sound of next morning’s loss already creeping in. ⁂ Daniel Blokh is a 16-year-old American writer of Russian-Jewish descent, living in Birmingham, Alabama. He is the author of the memoir In Migration (BAM! Publishing 2016), the micro-chapbook The Wading Room (Origami Poems Project 2016), and the chapbook Grimmening (forthcoming from Diode Editions). His work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing awards and the Foyle Young Poet awards, and has appeared in DIALOGIST, Permafrost, Blueshift, Cleaver, Gigantic Sequins, Forage Poetry, Avis, Thin Air, Cicada, and more. He's bad at taking naps, which sucks, because he really needs a nap right now.
Light lined our eyes. / We spoke of it, the false light that you / ate by handfuls, the acquired taste / you never really loved.
Maps, Daniel Blokh