David Ryan lives and works in Oakland, California.



Lucy Blagg

My thought machine purges me.
Huh. I thought a sort of sphere

you can step into. A clearing.
Sheer cotton twirling, that gold light,

skin depressions, cut to, light-up,
two-eyed, stream.

Cold cream cheek. She has a routine.
Hovering around slices of summer fruit

in thick plastic containers
waiting for a hand to move.

Submit to tight blue brushstrokes,
a place for the eye to land. I’m taking field notes

while holding my tongue. Orange flag
flipping around. Blood and hot wind,

dry wind, soft as the
scraps of your face

on the ground, unseen shadow.
Memory, flesh out my ears.

That’s the way I heard it.
Like a clown

in a polka dotted sack and water wings.
What does a clown do? Frown? Defecate

in its lover’s mouth? If I remember correctly,
what happens to me will

saturate my eyes and head. A cold gray oil
drifting down to my feet.

Lucy Blagg is a poet from Los Angeles, California.
You can reach her at lucyblagg@alum.calarts.edu