Sands

I read on Facebook about this contest in honor of Sandra Simonds' book, Warsaw Bikini. I don't remember the exact rules, but the winner(s) receive a copy of the book, and it involves some other stuff. I may be disqualified, anyway, as I'm publishing a chapbook for Sandra very soon. But I don't own a copy of her book . . . and wouldn't turn one down. Is what I'm sayin'.

Back to the contest. The "entry" is a poem (or short prose piece) playing on a line or title or poem of Sandra's. I went with one of her recently published poems La Petite Zine. It's in the style of, not inspired by, Sandra. Just so we're clear. *ahem*


"This Storm is a State (its Beauty, Eternal)"
-- after Sands

Ferns in the gutter were just be-
ginning to brown---a Death
befriended,

as round bodies bloated and gathered
for easy rolling to a greater un-
safety.

The rain
swoons itself down as
a blushing, never-was virgin.

Oh, come, minty-fresh, cherished de-
struction and
spin us toward the tornadic dark-
scape of your mangled
appropriations.

Say put it in.
Say do it inside me.