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Sekeena Shaben Sekeena Shaben was born in Canada and studied at the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics. Her poetry and fiction, which have appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in Canada and the United States, were recently set to music in American composer Libby Larsen’s This Unbearable Stillness: Songs from the Balcony. Shaben, the author of the poetry book Regular Joe, lives in New York City, where she is an attorney who works as a public defender. une demi-vierge when i was a woman i thought stay with the ones who won’t master you that way the ones who let you remain hidden; not crossed i’m not afraid of being conquered but what is this cavernous emptiness that surrounds the lining of the flesh poise; strength frightened mostly by the shell collapsing the underneath curling up and over i would give my soul away to finally close the creaking inanimate door from the distraction not madness like artaud that’s too poetic for this this is a far simpler notion of forgetting 275 2CHARARA_pages_165-334.qxd:Layout 1 11/14/08 2:39 PM Page 275 on my feet head out a 5 story new york loft i sneak a look at the pavement below love tap tap tap on the back of the chair i hear the clicking of love someone else’s love that repeats itself rebounds off the grey vapid ceiling of my skull i climb a ladder white wooden steps up to try and snatch this thing before it reaches the top of me hands gripping and slipping around the texture of an unknown leaking not from the heart but pouring out of gutted holes in the chest the same words the same notes are on my cd player every day “in these lines from time to time” she croons to me and i wonder who hollowed out her cheeks that way i will tell you half of what’s in my heart and half i will stuff back down in my throat like cotton, soft in a jar 276 Sekeena Shaben 2CHARARA_pages_165-334.qxd:Layout 1 11/14/08 2:39 PM Page 276 i hear the tap tap tap again a spoon against a tin cup? not a knock at the door and time is not for us anymore if only i could remain spaceless without time crouched beneath this desk in this room which is not mine i’ll let them come for me i think seems it’s better to let them have their way take me anywhere but here let them wrap my cool skin in their words better than these i’ve already buried the rest of me somewhere else so this this part of me they can have Sekeena Shaben 277 2CHARARA_pages_165-334.qxd:Layout 1 11/14/08 2:39 PM Page 277 no response the red the green the light the sidewalk beating into open rain my hand on the glass echoes into some time lost memory a guitar wakens my half open ice blocked mind locked grey distance flattens and rolls between pavement and yellow lines between this forward this movement of your faltering behind a 3 A.M. plane touching down hard and the last peruvian lady of discontent she said we speak of deep things i say we speak in the contrary bored ordinary language of lies no center point no connection to the martyr drum machine and my mongolian chess master winner just my skin in that wet predictable recourse of rain just your half naked sprawled wandering ass on my canvas in my room with my words with my hand on the wall to brace the inevitable falling from your forever shifting 278 Sekeena Shaben 2CHARARA_pages_165-334.qxd:Layout 1 11/14/08 2:39 PM Page 278 the geometry of glass in a circle wandering down the length of an edged glass jar rounded then flat the enclosures a way of stopping how is it that i have opened you up this foreign hour? the splitting of minutes severing material glass formed forced; disclosed designed only for shutting i sit waiting for the shadow of a bottle within a doorframe something resembling a container to be placed before me not like the other (a brown thin lipped bottle on a window sill near a tea cup near a seared unmentionable kind of flower) this one is clear isolated imported portented from faith resurrected up from a...


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MARC Record
Launched on MUSE
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