The Best American Poetry 2014 Read Online Free Page A

my object entirely; that is, unlike
    thought, which easily triples—or transforms—the whole,
    the mirror is bound by harmony.
    Entirely. Unlike the object reflected.
    Finally, when you back away from the glass, your image—
    the mirror is bound by harmony—
    always doubles the distance between you.
    As it finally backs away through the glass,
    light doubling its loss through angles of reflection,
    your image doubles the distance between you—always
    twice as far from the source as you are before it:
    Like a thought doubly lost through an act of reflection
    floating swan-like past its angle of incidence,
    twice as far from its mate as a lamp from a mirror
    that will never contain the whole of it.
    from The Atlantic

TRACI BRIMHALL
----
To Survive the Revolution

    I, too, love the devil. He comes to my bed
    all wrath and blessing and wearing
    my husband’s beard, whispers, tell me who
    you suspect. He fools me the same way every time,
    but never punishes me the same way twice.
    I don’t remember who I give him but he says
    I have the instinct for red. Kiss red. Pleasure red.
    Red of the ripe guaraná, of the jaguar’s eyes
    when it stalks the village at night. Red as the child
    I birthed who breathed twice and died.
    The stump of flesh where the head should be,
    red. Pierced side of Christ, red. A sinner needs
    her sin, and mine is beloved. Mine returns
    with skin under his fingernails, an ice cube
    on his tongue, and covers my face with a hymnal.
    I never ask for a miracle, only strength enough
    to bear his weight. Each day, I hang laundry
    on the line, dodge every shadow. Each night
    he crawls through the window, I pay with a name.
    from The Kenyon Review

LUCIE BROCK-BROIDO
----
Bird, Singing

    Then, every letter opened was an oyster
    Of possible bad news, pried apart to reveal
    The imperfect probable pearl of your death.
    Then, urgent messages still affrighted me, sharp
    Noises caused the birds not yet in flight to fly.
    Then, this was the life of you.
    All your molecules
    Gathered for your dying off
    Like mollusks clinging to a great ship’s hull.
    Ceremony of wounds, tinned,
    Tiny swaddled starlings soaked in brine.
    A bird, singing in his wicker cage, winds down.
    Now, a trestle table lined with wooden platters
    Neat with feathered wings of quail tucked-in.
    Until you sever the thing, from self, it feels.
    Thereafter it belongs to none.
    You have nothing to be afraid of, anymore.
    Outside Prague, I find you warm
    Among the million small gold bees set loose
    In April’s onion snow, quietly
    Quietly, would you sing this back to me, out loud?
    from Boston Review

JERICHO BROWN
----
Host

    We want pictures of everything
    Below your waist, and we want
    Pictures of your waist. We can’t
    Talk right now, but we will text you
    Into coitus. All thumbs. All bi-
    Coastal and discreet and masculine
    And muscular. No whites. Every
    Body a top. We got a career
    To think about. No face. We got
    Kids to remember. No one over 29.
    No one under 30. Our exes hurt us
    Into hurting them. Disease free. No
    Drugs. We like to get high with
    The right person. You
    Got a girl? Bring your boy.
    We visiting. Room at the W.
    Name’s D. Name’s J. We DeeJay.
    We Trey. We Troy. We Q. We not
    Sending a face. Where should we
    Go tonight? You coming through? Please
    Know what a gym looks like. Not much
    Time. No strings. No place, no
    Face. Be clean. We haven’t met
    Anyone here yet. Why is it so hard
    To make friends? No games. You
    Still coming through? Latinos only.
    Blacks will do. We can take one right
    Now. Text it to you. Be there next
    Week. Be there in June. We not a phone
    Person. We can host, but we won’t meet
    Without a recent pic and a real name
    And the sound of your deepest voice.
    from Vinyl Poetry

KURT BROWN
----
Pan del Muerto

    In Mexico, they bake bread
    for those who died—flat
    little cakes they leave around the house
    for a mother or father or a child
    to find. The