In New Cities We Run Into No One

By ROSEBUD BEN-ONI 

& no one believes the future is horses falling
beneath ten thousand satellites & ten thousand
tombs & who in the new
cities will say through
horses of fire & phosphorous drain
that we could make the journey alone
a temple?

Why lead such horses to your graves,
when the new cities are free
from anticyclone & acid rain,

a place
without derecho & light
pillars igniting
narrow bays—

the future four legs of ice & dust
shrinking
all burned fields
& barren terrain.

Would you then bear yourself strange,

fluke & freak,
without speech &
stranded in frazil
& grease—

would you believe the last great horse is
but a blood wedding of death
& grace?

 

[Purchase Issue 15 here.]

Rosebud Ben-Oni was a recipient of the 2014 NYFA Fellowship in Poetry and a 2013 CantoMundo Fellow. Her most recent collection of poems, turn around, BRXGHT XYXS, was selected as Agape Editions’ Editors’ Choice and will be published in 2019. She is an editorial advisor for VIDA: Women in Literary Arts. Her work appears or is forthcoming in Poetry, The American Poetry Review, Tin House, Black Warrior Review, TriQuarterly, Prairie Schooner, and Arts & Letters, among other publications.

From the beginning, The Common has brought you transportive writing and exciting new voices. We are committed to supporting writers and maintaining free, unrestricted access to our website, but we can’t do it without you. Become an integral part of our global community of readers and writers by donating today. No amount is too small. Thank you!

In New Cities We Run Into No One

Related Posts

Close-up of a field of rye

April 2026 Poetry Feature #1: Carson Wolfe, Benjamin Paloff, and Jehanne Dubrow

JEHANNE DUBROW
For years, I’ve been drafting a book / about trauma, how words may form / a likeness of the mind that’s torn— / the past tears easily as paper, I write. / And don’t the leaves on the ground / resemble ripped poems, as if the weather / keeps trying to find the right phrase, / all those crumpled revisions of the seasons.

Black and white portrait of a man wearing spectacles.

They Could Have

CONSTANTINE CONTOGENIS
Near destitute, I’m this close to homeless. / This killer of a city, Antioch, / it’s eaten all the money I have, / this killer and its cost of living. // But I’m young, in the best health. / I speak a marvelous Greek / (and I know, I mean “know,” my Aristotle, Plato, / the orators, poets, the—well, you name them).