Daniel Blokh is author of In Migration (BAM! Publishing, 2016), available now on
booksamillion.com. His work has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing
, Foyle Young Poets, Cicada Magazine, Thin Air magazine, and more. He is
an editor at Parallel Ink and a reader at the Adroit Journal.

Sound Signal

In another world noise
may travel faster than light. Bullet, then color.

Birdsong, then the upturned sun in the beak
like a yolk. Your call comes hours before

light breaks through your mother's eye.
In another world hearing you breathe

is not enough to convince them, and infants
sing us to sleep from the womb.

Listen; singing. Look; this world
sings before it holds us. This world sends our lips

into the ocean. Watch; only after the wave crashes
will the moon dare follow.

Painting Stones

The trick is to leave your ringer on
through the service.
This way the lung
is heavy with the distance between sound

and surface, the weight of a held breath
turning the knuckle's vein blue. Blue. The trick
is to think of the bluest thing you know
and not say ocean.

There's motion even where they say
there can't be. There's wind in your throat,
in your mouth hanging open. The trick: to come before them

and unzip your lung. To say anything but sorry.
To say, the sky. Say,
his eye; say, a berry.

The Room When You Enter

You stand at the other end of the house and worry
I�m smoking too much. Can you hear the rasp

in my singing? Of course
you can read my shame better than anyone. I've written you a list
in the closest thing I could find to my lung.
Tonight it's

-being heard.
-being seen, opened.
-being in myself when you come in.

Look, put down the broom.

I want your hand in my mouth. Your finger
in my gut. Can I hire you to fix wiring?

I want you more human than silhouette, want you
loud, want you silent, want you to stomp the floorboards like I'm not

there. The party's starting soon.
I'm ready to leave. The windows we stare through
could so easily be the same.

Directions for Shopping in Motion

Sail, says the lady at the register
and my skin skids forward

like a point on axis, a stone aimed
for a kitchen window,
the glass parting around me. In the wind,
Do you need
a receipt?

In the mouth of the shore,
in the bent tongue of the ocean,
in the cop's lip,

Paper bag or plastic?
Rake my soul for profit; burn me into
the nails of your hungry nails, oh lady at the register
with your fingers paused

on the keys. Seize my bones, bring a man
and tango through my home.
Sweep my room for hair to weave

a boat.

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