Episode 101: The Anti-Efficiency Episode

Slushies, what are some ways a writer may gain your trust? Kathy lifts a brow at poems including questions. Marion looks side ways at pop-cultural references. (Check out this favorite of ours from issues past.) But these poems may make them think otherwise. In “Diving For Pearls” the imagery pulls us into the world of Bedouin and sea-faring cultural economy. Or how “Tidying up with Marie Kondo” may trivialize the idea of the context of curiosity.

Speaking of sparking your joy— or not— what was an item that you loved but had to get rid of?

This episode is brought to you by one of our sponsors, Wilbur Records, who kindly introduced us to the artist is A.M.Mills whose song “Spaghetti with Loretta” now opens our show.

Rasha Alduwaisan is an oral historian from Kuwait. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Cincinnati Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Willow Springs and The Common. She earned an MA in Middle Eastern Studies from Harvard University.

 

 

Diving for Pearls

My body is a sack of bones,
feet bound, heavy with stone,
I plunge and sand shatters
without a sound, tongue-
tied, this sea is breathless,
rope & leather & lead,
I grasp what I can see,
rough shells, round shells,
hollow shells,
I mouth your name
and something stirs –
I pry myself open to find it.

 

Tidying Up with Marie Kondo

Marie, I drove to the landfill yesterday    to find my wedding dress    the one    
I couldn’t bear to give to anyone else    I know I shouldn’t have    but I followed
the truck down the beach road and into the desert    tried to plead at the gates
you know    the way they do in the movies    but security was so tight, Marie    
so I watched from the car  and it looked like a mound of bodies  lace wrapped
around denim around plastic around mulch    and there were so many toys,
Marie dolls without stuffing    bikes without wheels    so many fridges    
torn at the hinge    and the truck I followed could have been any truck    
my dress any dress    so I left    drove deeper into the desert    until all I could
see were seagulls    dipping in and out of the heap    nothing on their backs 
but feathers    and they looked so happy, Marie    they really did

 

Agarwood

I dab oud on my wrists, my neck,
the gap between my breasts,

the way the Agar pours sap into its
wounds, the tender scent filling the room.

In Cambodia, they strip down trees
to find it, the infected bark, the salve.

My throat is dry from shouting, this time
about you smoking inside the house,

the stove I left on all night,
the text we cannot translate.

I want you to kiss me, but all I can do
is tell you I would be better off without you.

Tell me, how long does a bruised tongue
take to heal? How sweet does it taste?