At my chalice-smooth fingers / bronzed as judgment trumpets, one hand / glacier-blue, the other lilies and teeth—
The chapbook “More Than Watchmen at Daybreak” opens by addressing the reader as pilgrim, a traveler, one who has come from afar or is seeking a holy place.
Everything sanguine. Everything / illumined to unmask our every crater, valley, plateau.
reflected the blue wash above Arizona, as we snaked up the sides / of Thumb’s Butte, halfway between pine hills and the sagebrush floor
Two Jewish men stay up all night drinking and debating the existence of God. At the end of the night, they come to a conclusion: God cannot possibly exist. They tumble out into the early morning air, satisfied with their conclusion.
Carlos Andrés Gómez is a Columbian-American poet, author, actor, and speaker. He is the recipient the 2018 Broken River Prize, selected by Eduardo C. Corral, for his new collection of poems, Hijito (Platypus Press 2019).
In the basement of the crack house I used to visit / as an outreach worker on 121st street in Harlem, / I was convinced He refused / to travel north of 96th.
Conquest followed by red / and black and pale—beasts / of conflict, judgement, and death. / But what of this equine quartet—
Same shade as fall maples, / a cardinal wing, a valentine.