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About this poet

Monica Ferrell's second collection, You Darling Thing, will be published by Four Way Books in September. She is also author of the novel The Answer Is Always Yes (Dial Press, 2009) and the poetry collection Beasts for the Chase (Sarabande Books, 2008), a finalist for the Asian American Writers’ Workshop Prize in Poetry. She lives in Brooklyn, New York.

Rime Riche

You need me like ice needs the mountain 
On which it breeds. Like print needs the page.
You move in me like the tongue in a mouth,
Like wind in the leaves of summer trees,
Gust-fists, hollow except for movement and desire
Which is movement. You taste me the way the claws
Of a pigeon taste that window-ledge on which it sits,
The way water tastes rust in the pipes it shuttles through
Beneath a city, unfolding and luminous with industry. 
Before you were born, the table of elements 
Was lacking, and I as a noble gas floated 
Free of attachment. Before you were born, 
The sun and the moon were paper-thin plates 
Some machinist at his desk merely clicked into place.

Copyright © 2010 by Monica Ferrell. Used with permission of the author.

Copyright © 2010 by Monica Ferrell. Used with permission of the author.

Monica Ferrell

Monica Ferrell

Monica Ferrell's second collection, You Darling Thing, will be published by Four Way Books in September.

by this poet

poem
This massive apartment: a whole room left
Empty to air, where we used to sleep.
So many steps on the waxed wood, like off turns
On the dial of a lock whose combination one’s lost—
All decaying about me like empire,
The moldings moldering while I sit frozen
As a swan on the surface of a lake changing to ice.
Fruit
2
poem

I would have liked then for someone to touch me
So I could know the purpose of this hardship.
Black-eyed and impassive as a canyon,
From the hive of my mind, I looked at their faces 
As I moved between rows of espaliered pears.
I only intended for someone to show
Me, once, an affection

2
poem

There is nothing beautiful here
However I may want it. I can’t
Spin a crystal palace of this thin air,
Weave a darkness plush as molefur with my tongue
However I want. Yet I am not alone
In these alleys of vowels, which comfort me
As the single living nun of a convent
Is comforted