This week, a poem by Octavio R. González.




Lips smoking what could tranquilize, restore
ghosting, silent gestures.   Yellow lines, green
ink folded over, opened as a Christ
-mas gift:   A new you, with complicated
hands embracing my cold feet (which you swore
to keep warm).   Forever? what a story,
my telenovela, red-carpet star.

Fountain of piss in a dim Saint Mark’s Place
motel, drinking rum rain that stained the floor
but the taste (another word for love) was
not “candied sweet”—was no Eucharist.   My
ex foretold the scene, and perceived the rest,
glared at the soles of his feet, summoning
the beat to move on.   Our tangle just began.


OCTAVIO (Tavi) GONZÁLEZ’s first collection of poems, The Book of Ours, was selected by the Institute for Latino Letters / Letras Latinas at the University of Notre Dame (available at He teaches at Wellesley College, and can be reached on Twitter @TaviRGonzalez. “Eucharist,” a nonce sonnet, is part of his second poetry manuscript, “The Wingless Hour.”

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