my cousins dare me to eat an entire large pizza
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San Genaro Italian Restaurant, 1994
If a distant star were watching through a telescope, it would not understand any of this-- the glee with which the cousins stare as the boy puts his body to its practical use, the cruel & bewildering medicine shame & joy make, how the boy belongs by not belonging, how he enters into community by way of performing what separates him from it, how, once learned, this will save him from quick small deaths by killing him slowly & all the way. It would not understand the alchemy this is, a transformation of nourishment into devastation which creates, somehow, another nourishment, it would not understand the covenant the boy is making with a divine imposter, a minor god in the mask of heaven, it would understand only this: an expanding body taking & taking, until nothing, not even light, will touch it. |
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Jeremy Radin is a poet, actor, teacher, and extremely amateur gardener. His poems have appeared (or are forthcoming) in Ploughshares, The Colorado Review, Crazyhorse, Gulf Coast, The Journal, and elsewhere. He is the author of two collections of poetry: Slow Dance with Sasquatch (Write Bloody Publishing, 2012) and Dear Sal (not a cult press, 2017). He was born and lives in Los Angeles. Follow him @germyradin.