Laughing Africa (Iowa Poetry Prize) by Terese Svoboda

By Terese Svoboda

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Additional info for Laughing Africa (Iowa Poetry Prize)

Sample text

Eisenhower has one, with some donkeys.  The White House has plenty of room. I mumble, shy about my fat mother.  He dreams, I tell my brother, See how the eyeballs twitch under his lids? Page 71 Shell They stop while I'm staring at my tongue tip.  I cross my legs.  We pass two rushing brown rivers. Page 72 Permission to Live Good as any Kennedy, she raised nine on a farm near silos full of missiles. We shouted the postwar pledge seconds, please and kept our elbows off the table.  True, sex for sex exposes not ingenuous pleasure, but death, the urgent crooning checked, the twitching cold limbs, the heart motionless.

At night even the dogs howl for their kind, roasting in the umu, cut down in packs by cars, the island's thinnings.  The spiritual can never equal the scent of tipani, a blood-heat climate, the body's pleasure, a glide across a plate-flat lagoon.  No, the dead want back and those athwart the graves, coupling under canopies of mats, try to persuade them otherwise, crying out over love-thrusts. Page 17 V But a miscarriage mourned? Here everyone gets a baby, even single young men, largesse from women with over ten, succès d'estime.

Ay, qué linda, I have it on record, qué música.  The elastic in my lingerie wears out so I buy new "a flag of cuckoldry," he sneezes, in fury. He takes my head and cracks the wall with it. " With that my brain clears. " What one country won't do to another. Page 41 Slaughter of the Centaurs Woods, glades, copses, massed oak, the vines of Atreus, trillium, dogbane, an excess of green, the insects cryptic with cold, green with a fine English mist which softens the streaks of blood glistening on the flanks of the coarsely forelocked boys, none more than fifteen, beardless, death catching them cantering, berets cocked, weapons not.

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