Nomi Stone's second collection of poems, Kill Class is forthcoming from Tupelo Press in 2018. She is also the author of the poetry collection Stranger's Notebook (TriQuarterly, 2008), a Postdoctoral Research Fellow in Anthropology at Princeton University, and an MFA Candidate in Poetry at Warren Wilson College. Poems appear recently in The New Republic, The Best American Poetry 2016, Poetry Northwest, Sixth Finch, diode, and elsewhere.
Peter Feng is a poet and translator from Qingdao, China. He received a PhD in English Literature from Nanjing University in 2011, and since then he has been exploring the interconnections between poetry, philosophy, and psychoanalysis. He has translated a number of American poets, including elsewhere by Scott Alexander Jones and The Collected Poems of Sylvia Plath (Shanghai Translation Publishing House). He is the author of Parallel Tongues, The Desert Swimmer, and Cruel Raven (co-authored with Sun Dong, Nanjing University Press). His poems appear in Poetry Sky, American Poetry Review, Big Scream, Grey Sparrow, Napalm Health Spa, and others.
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
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
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
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
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
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.
find the spot. The beach is saltined with lights, neoned with spectacular
globes of light, a dozen moons instead of the one
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
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
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
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.