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

Supermarketing

LAUREN DELAPENHA
For example, the last time I asked God / to kill me I was among the lemons, remembering // the preacher saying, God is a God who is able / to hunger. I wonder, // aren’t we all here for that fast / communion of a stranger reaching // for the same hydroponic melon? 

Red Cadillac interior.

Jesus’ Body Found Outside Ice Cream Parlor in Black Suburb 

STEFAN BINDLEY-TAYLOR
His left wrist dangled out the half-wound-down glass of a boxy brown Cadillac with red felt seats. Flies drifted in and out. He had a dip top cone in his hand. The place was famous for them. You’d think it would be melting in the heat, but the molten chocolate shell held

Headshot of Aimee Nezhukumatathil

Nocturne for Dark Things

AIMEE NEZHUKUMATATHIL
One of the marvels of my life— / an alphabet. A whole green and mossy / world can be made and remade / from just twenty-six dark curlicues. / Here’s more dark: sometimes birds sleep / tucked under a giraffe’s dusky armpit / and sometimes fungi fatten only at night.