what do i say to
promises of new life
when i know the
frame by frame of


“it doesn’t work”
Adam pierced the film—
“it makes no sound now. only salty
sad whistling that sweeps
through the holes. sweeps nothing
through the holes”


“you with your arms of seafoam
and tender salt
i watch you. i see your face
in every Body.
you are a blue and green sword
plunging, weeping, on the tip of your toes
crashing like a waltz—
crashing like a red, red waltz, alex
spread thick on my body
with the ashes of beetles and pills
and of mondays
chaperoned to the slaughter.
your tower leans
soft and severe;
that i may touch it
seems almost uncourtly—
i tell you
we are in the wake
of the monday of our lives
awaiting, awaiting
that we may dance drunk
on the edge of good
and buzz: busy with numbers
and letters falling
falling like cold
the cold that unfolds
and unfolds and…”
-i to the third of the three threes


smell smells. a hand drags itself
like a wet mop humid with
mildew’s sleep and an afterbirth
over a face
where a hand drags itself.
my hand smells like you
so i lug it
through the unruly terrace
even though i know
you are bleach and coins and honey
unsexed and dry
—but the coins are worry stones
without faces to howl,
whimper when tongued with
the slightest click, clucking:
“instead of a face
there is a hole in its place”


i felt a funeral
in my chest
when you suckled
on my breast



“marvela manco”
the Virgin told me
when i asked if i could
if it was okay to fuck you
because fainting i follow you and
fainting i rise above the mesa
where there’s no spring no fall
no means no mediums to perfect bend
along perfect bone to bone, slip
sliding in the ever effervescent
lickety split always
splitting and spitting
and slitting itself open


(knees saddling our cheeks
in rosewater flux)
we are wearing our own
death shrouds in
the ache of salt licks and
the itch of mad roses, both
against us and with us
because time spreads thick
like lukewarm wax. i have
so far forgotten
your name. the incense
keeps on burning


have you passed the
gardens of avalon? i think
i may have, but
marcheska told me
just you wait: the Eires will fade and
the cotton will billow into glasses
tall glasses the color of the sea
on those owling days when
the sun, distracted
opens her mouth wide
baring beautiful rows and rows
of fat pink sheen. that is when
i will come. the thick, black
treble clefs will mingle, too
but as long as you inflate
your ear canal with
you won’t hear them;
their siren song


marvela manco
your head all symmetrical:
a vase, topiary, a twenty seven
aged one, a sixth bottle of wine
i woke, bruised. we walk into streets and
you walk backwards into streets
you with your hands. you with
your saltwater hands on my skinless
boneless oldless me
weeping semen over my breasts
in shellac and static, stag-, you
you with your hands on my breasts
and how i tied you around my neck
making no room
for your arms
you with your open mouth
you with your open mouth, i rail
at that, sing to me O muse
—is that your noise?


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2 Responses to Virgin

  1. jaguarpress says:

    The physical/emotional cross over of this piece would make you think that we didnt have a skull or skin separating our mind from the fresh air, how do you experience time? The question of the first stanza is reflected again and again, especially in the question that ends the poem (socratic ouroburos?). It is part foray into sexy surrealism, depicting in so many words the trope of the Advent of the Bible or “Wasteland” as though it were an out of space rendez-vous or an anticipated orgasm. Alina makes it “rain down on” the reader this tinged love poem. The imagery is fucking intense, not remiss of the action that so many of her contemporaries seem to lack. And a deep melancholy too?

    This is a poem to be experienced in a live reading, look out for future readings.

    Do any artists want to create some images for this? Painting, illustration, watercolor, sculpture, whatever. It’s ready.

  2. Lemoine says:

    “the frame by frame of cocooning…arms of seafoam…the ever effervescent” – all I know about poetry is that I feel a funeral in my chest when I read this.

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