This must be what god feels like: swimming the
Slim interstice between sensation and
Language, or within the silence as the
Curtain lifts. Head to the source of the earth’s
Deep percussive heartbeat like dum-da-dum
Waltzing with every last atom in the
Universe, impenitent, blank verse blown
Apart by line breaks, bricolage applause
As spoken word verses raining down like
Stardust, this meteor only ever half-glimpsed
As it careens throughout the heavens. It’s
Sappho if she could have heard Ludacris’ verse
On ‘Baby’. It’s fire, baby, and I, the
Reader, can warm your hands against it while
You still have the chance. A truth that one can
Express in epithet form is that
Meena Alexander wasn’t on Fallon
Even once, and probably died poor.
Poor as in penniless. So take a good look.
And then again as it is reproduced
Through a series of iterated images.
That’s £19.99 at Waterstones,
Baby, and trust me:
There’s an L in ‘neoliberalism’ but you won’t find one in ‘Home Body’.
