Issue > Poetry

Marcus Civin

Marcus Civin teaches at Maryland Institute College of Art, creates prop-based performances and writes. His writing has also appeared in The Futility of Making Salad (Insert Press and Material Press), No Gender: Reflections on the Life & Work of Kari Edwards (Belladonna and Litmus Press), Uncontained: Writers and Photographers in the Garden and the Margins (Baksun Books), and Fold Magazine (Insert Press).

Idea

She thought she was passported.
Kicking her legs,
She thought she could let all.

She wanted to take her wrapping up legs,
Make them blue-green and brown,
Weld welt his mouth a mud-gold expanse,
Leg back overhead.

Usually, they were boring:
Schoolwork, evening news,
Holding his head on the pillow.

He loved cake wrap,
Loved bibble sharpen dance,
Some of the cat lava.

I Remember

I remember every damn second.

They are in a home superstore.
They are balancing on a silver pipe.
They are on Hester Street,
On a rooftop.

Pertaining to god,
To glue,
To glue-god dump-offs.

My friend told me over Thai food:
'You were trying, the bond of sympathy.'