Listen: Patricia Lockwood, Paris, Marin Ireland discussed on Selected Shorts
"Marin Ireland performed Yokogawa 's lab coats, I'm Joseph Inc. And I'm Jeffrey Craner, we I found the poet Patricia Lockwood dishing, profound thoughts and under one hundred forty characters on Twitter. She wants tweeted at the Paris review. So as Paris any good or not their response to Shay, Patricia Lockwood poetry makes the adjectives political sexual and surreal seem completely synonymous up next Dylan Moran performs Patricia Lockwood list of crossdressing soldiers. I there was Helen of Sparta who did it only with oil. No one knows how then there was Maggie of England who even on the battlefield put men back together. And then there was rows of the deepest south who stood up in her father's clothes and walked out of the house and herself. Disguised women were always among them. They badly wanted to wear blue. They badly wanted to wear red. They wanted to blend with the woods or ground together. With men they were blown from their pronouns their faces two were shot off which were then free of their bodies. I never had any dolls. I only had soldiers. I played soldier from the minute. I was born dropped my voice down almost into the earth. Wore bandages, where I didn't need them was finally discovered by the doctor was finally discovered at the end. Someone thought long and hard how to best make my brother blend into the sand. He came back, and he was heaped up himself like a dune. He was twice the size of me his site glitter deeper in the family head he hit among himself and slid and stormed and look the same as the next one and was hot and gold and somewhere else. My brother reached out his hand to me and said, they should not be over there. Women should not be over there. He said, I watched people burned to death. They burned to death in front of me. A week later his red haired friend killed himself. And even his name was a boy's name. Andrew. A friend rights to him. My dress blues are being altered for a blood stripe. That's a beautiful line. I can't help hearing kisses. He writes to a friend, his friend. He writes back cuddles bunch of girls bunch of girls. They write each other miss, you brother, bunch of girls bunch of girls, they passed the hours with tickle fights. They grew their mustaches together they lost their hearts to local dogs. What a bunch of girls. I sent my brother nothing in the desert because I was busy writing poems deciding one by one where the breath commas went or else, it would not stand and walk. This was going to be a poem about release from the body. This was going to be a poem about someone else. Maybe even me. My brother is alive because of a family capacity for little hairs rising on the back of the neck. The night the roadside bomb blew up all three sisters dreamed of him. There. I just felt it. The family capacity. My brother is alive because the family head. Sometimes here's a little voice. I had been writing the poem before the boy died it then did not seem right to mention that burn means different things in different bodies. I was going to end the poem with a line about the grass, but they were in the desert, and I was in the desert when I thought about them and no new ending appeared to me. I was going to write the hill that they died on was often a woman wearing the greatest uniform of war, which is grass. I know my little brothers head the scalp is almost green where the Harris shortest. I know my little brothers head and that is where the ending lives. The one that sends the poem home and makes grass stand up on the back of the neck and fits so beautiful. No, one can breathe. The last words live in the family head and let them live in there awhile.."