I Can't Write to All the Blondes 


so accidentally I grew a huge hole


say baby / it was my woman that went,


      I keep a few facts with her

     but mostly am peeking


      at how a face gets brilliant

        what plays anatomy for rent


she said excellence in a job context / grows my sadness too

I added that last part, or


      the enhance effect

      got base now


left me for crabbing / on a shore so awash &

every time I start a mascara

a tortoise gets wings


or masturbation

kills seashells

How I Make My Own Chin My Chin


This morning everyone's my friend,

everyone is someone I could say

hurrah to & they might think it were all.

They let it be all to me today. My mind

gets smaller around & has to take less

notes. I let the facts just stay around.

Around a biblical range of humans

I have corners. I draw on my factoid

about mercy to entertain them--

when I say something wrong on purpose

everyone laughs & pleads for another

of my kind of exit. My benevolence

is not for rent. It forgives because it

likes to not see out. It likes its hair-filled

face.  When my benevolence and I go padding

around we are quiet for a reason. We

know how to spear all charity in.

Do you see us as a marching band with

meaning? Do you see us as the altar

in your funny marketplace? We like

hunting more than serving. We pray

waiting tables will be loved by someone.

A prayer for some high school art:

a prayer for things trying to

be things. I jumped on someone's

back this morning to see if the back

of their head knew what prayer was.

It turned greasy as I drew closer and

would not clear when I drew tufts away.


Leora Fridman is a writer, translator and educator living in Massachusetts. Her recent and forthcoming publications are included in Denver Quarterly, The Offending Adam, H_NGM_N,  and others.  She is an MFA candidate at the UMass Amherst Program for Poets and Writers where she is Assistant Director of the Juniper Institute and co-curates the Jubilat/Jones Reading Series.