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About this poet

Nomi Stone’s second collection of poems, Kill Class, is forthcoming from Tupelo Press in 2019. She is also the author of Stranger’s Notebook (TriQuarterly Books, 2008). Stone is the recipient of fellowships and grants from the Vermont Studio Center and the DC Commission on the Arts and Humanities. She teaches anthropology at Princeton University and lives in Philadelphia.

Anthropocene

Nesting, the turtle seems to be crying even though she is simply secreting
her salt. Her dozens bud limbs inside amniotic pillows

as she leaves every egg in a cup of sand the size of her body,
shaped like a tilting teardrop — and both cryings

are mentioned by scientists. My niece Eve is startle-eyed when you feed her
avocado and when you feed her sweet potato. She lives mouth first:

she would eat  the sidewalk and piano, the symmetrical petals of the Bradford pear,
as if she could learn which parts of the world are made and how,

and yesterday she put her mouth on the image of her own face
in the mirror. Larkin says what will survive of us is love,

but the scientists say that the end of the decay-chain is lead and uranium and after that,
plastics. Just now the zooplankton are swallowing micro pearls of plastic

and the sea is  aflame with waste caught in the moon’s light.
Here is the darkening hour and here, the shore, as she droplets her eggs,

bright as ping pong balls, into the sand.  She can’t find the spot.
The beach is saltined with lights, neoned with spectacular

globes of light, a dozen moons instead of the one moon. Still, she lets them go
and one month later, tiny turtles hatch. They seem groggy,

carrying their houses of bone and cartilage to the ocean,
scrambling toward the horizon alongside the earth’s magnetic field.

Less than one percent of the hatchlings make it past
the seagulls and crabs, so Noah spent a summer dashing them to the water.

But my poem is not about the moment when a bird dove and bore
into the underflesh and into Noah’s memory.

My poem is about how we are gathered around Eve
in the kitchen as she eats a fruit she has never tried before

and each newness in the world
stops the world’s ending in its tracks.

Copyright © 2016 Nomi Stone. “Anthropocene” originally appeared in Plume. Used with permission of the author.

 

Copyright © 2016 Nomi Stone. “Anthropocene” originally appeared in Plume. Used with permission of the author.

 

Nomi Stone

Nomi Stone

Nomi Stone's second collection of poems, Kill Class, is forthcoming from Tupelo Press in 2019. 

by this poet

poem

The egg is skinned in water, born before
the body. Salt as a nut, bare with blood,
the shallows pink with ache: be arable,
bear me towards the water, let me have
you. I freeze you: cell-throb & wake me
inside the afterlife. On that day, death did
come as a white ram. Egg, we slit

poem

Goats mewling
in the Muslim village.
Leafy footpath
into the bodiless acre
of graves. Pass.

Animals:
goats
chickens (a fury, a pack)
one pig (Salma)

Instructors measure our fervor.
Your machine must cover
the kill zone

poem
Soldiers collect & number:
pigment, hair, jade,
roasted meat, timber,
cum. The enemy’s
flute; the face

of an enemy
as he holds his young;
the enemy’s face the moment
it’s harmed. The woods

are a class in what
they can take. The country
is fat. We eat
from its side.
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