Desmond Kon Zhicheng Mingdé


Desmond Kon Zhicheng Mingdé Poems

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Before Raymond Carver

The apple is first rolled across the floor, bounced, bruised
like her forehead, like her small brown tired eye. The apple tosses, itself
a tennis ball, against all four walls – still she thinks it’s the parrot
out of its cage, out all four walls. When it finally dribbles to land
against her shoe, a knob, soft knock, she thinks it the rain and how
it moves to a stop, the way she only wished of her every day.

These days, it’s all been about apples, and sometimes oranges the
rest of the time.

“This is what an apple feels like, Helen.”

“This is what an ...

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Still Bad Poetry Ii

just deleted an isthmus
out of fear, sheer fear;
this, the culture of fear
and what it does, burns
to the voice, its irons

sharon olds, if only
i had your i, pyre fire
unpacking, welling sounds;

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