October 29—The Dow Closes Down 11118

By SUSAN BRIANTE

We want to remember
our dead, make an altar,
bring our daughter
to the photograph trace a chin
here, for good luck, palm
her grandmother’s hair,
she doesn’t know

who she is yet (trick
or treat?)
how can she dress up
like a lion, doctor, fish,
be stitches
in the middle of my book
sunset reflecting off windows

Texas will teach her
seasons: dried
leaves under the table,
new green on the treetops
a dirty car backfires
in the crosswalk, a nest
hangs from the porch light

fixture, I want to hold her
in the center,
cup her breath
in my hands, balance
her heart on my knees
the Dow grabs blindly,
knocks things off

 

 

Susan Briante is the author of Pioneers in the Study of Motion, Utopia Minus, and the chapbook The Market Is a Parasite That Looks Like a Nest, part of an ongoing lyric investigation of the stock market.

Click here to purchase Issue 03

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!

October 29—The Dow Closes Down 11118

Related Posts

New York City skyline

Lawrence Joseph: New Poems

LAWRENCE JOSEPH
what we do is // precise and limited, according to / the Minister of Defense, // the President / is drawing a line, // the President is drawing / a red line, we don’t want to see  / a major ground assault, the President says, / it’s time for this to end, / for the day after to begin, he says, // overseer of armaments procured

rebecca on a dock at sunset

Late Orison

REBECCA FOUST
You & I will grow old, Love, / we have grown old. But this last chance // in our late decades could be like the Pleiades, winter stars seen by / Sappho, Hesiod & Galileo & now by you & me. // Let us be boring like a hollow drill coring deep into the earth to find / its most secret mineral treasures.

Waiting for the Call I Am

WYATT TOWNLEY
Not the girl / after the party / waiting for boy wonder // Not the couple / after the test / awaiting word // Not the actor / after the callback / for the job that changes everything // Not the mother / on the floor / whose son has gone missing // I am the beloved / and you are the beloved