Leanne Tory-Murphy
SWELL
in dark morning drift we move
unseen current squint
some unknown vision
without crash they come in we try
sometimes we do we catch
them bring us deposit another
wreck despite our looks to horizon sediment
in the bottom of a cup adivinar
is to divine to guess though Marija is having
a baby will live in her childhood home. Ian
will have a child he wanted to tell me before
we see each other again he said we’ll
see the equidistance Palermo
London, a small French village known
for its healing water again my dream
baby lodges so much food in its mouth
it starts to gag the bits fall dry
unchewed a woman slowly
embraces the phantom settling
its head on her shoulder the waves
are slushy says the seer
exhilaration on her face
EL CAÑÓN DEL SUMIDERO
awake to traces
of light spilled on concrete
floor slow play of breeze
in curtains sprawling
bougainvillea it is spring
the day starts too early
heat crawls by the river
it is a beautiful morning
in the canyon’s narrow passage
wear life vests eat
snacks from wrapper shine
mirrors at the grotto
saint – her eyes don’t move
there is no revelation
just refraction we float
in thick air you say
we’ve arrived to Macondo
on the day of liberation the people
on Facebook love to see us there
it is a beautiful morning
in the canyon the rain
would come later
our ears are attuned
to birdsong we hear it better
than we hear each other we
follow it to water this water
is brackish still
and flatly gleaming
the Chiapa people jumped
from the highest point
rather than submit
to conquest today the river
is calm because dammed
waste collects
it is a beautiful morning
in the canyon we are in a boat
life vests eating
snacks from wrapper shine
looking up at lookout
points the birds are too
hot to sing it is a beautiful
morning in the canyon
it is a beautiful morning
ELDEST
I remember the sun on my bare chest
surrounded by shirtless men in the yard
next to dad’s mechanic shop after work
and when he put the green glass bottle mouth
on my wet girl mouth my spit mixing with his
spit and just a taste of beer bitter
glass smooth in the hot summer
air among the men I flapped my arms wide
and we flocked in our quiet way all
shirtless men drinking beer in the yard
by the train tracks where the feral cats
hid and where the racoon died
under the deck after he was gone.
and the flies were buzzing all around
and you could see the smell
and Terry Quinn came
and he was a firefighter
and knew my dad
and he went down under there
and dragged the body out
and put it in a bag
and took it away
and we needed
to thank him for that
because we could not
have done it
without him.
mom took me to the store
and we got a big jug of liquor
and walked it down to Terry Quinn’s
and she wanted me to give it to him
and I was holding the glass
neck in the brown
paper bag it was heavy
but not too heavy
I didn’t want
to hold it
I wanted
to let go
so I let go
and dropped it
on the sidewalk
it cracked
the glass
swirling in
the seeping
paper and
she looked
so alone
said
it had been a mistake though
she could not afford another.
Leanne Tory-Murphy is a writer and organizer who has worked across the fields of labor and migration for more than two decades. She was a Fulbright grantee, a Social Practice CUNY fellow and is a recent graduate of the MFA program in Poetry at Brooklyn College. Her work has appeared in The Brooklyn Review, Killing the Buddha, The Brooklyn Rail, Le Monde Diplomatique, Jacket2, and La Piccioletta Barca, and her manuscript, “Sea Above,” was a finalist for the Wendy's Subway Carolyn Bush Award.
