you are in the diode archives v5n3



Epithalamion for Sommer & Noah                           

Bobby’s Lubbock spins a
crack dealer into the mix,
& I’m eighteen reading
Carver out of an anthology in Tucson.

There are many beginnings to
each self, I guess,
I’ve hid some things for
shame—because I have
a conscience or because
something else got the better

of me? A vouchsafe,
secrets on the stairwell,
I like the story where
you nearly opened some
kid’s chest for throwing shit
on your girl.  That was

then—my past too
comes up as a serpent
under a dinghy—funny
what honesty does to
you & the parallax.

Some snitches are still lying
& trying to remember how
to keep a tone righteous
while their kids doze on
a texting babysitter.

I like the letter where you
can’t keep a plant alive to your dad
the most. But vulnerability
always risks a brittle scone
& cold coffee in return.

It’s painbreaking soul madness,
I’ll go all the way back to an historical
starter shot. Fuck the white
guild faction composing
me, composting me.

I’ll say it like I sometimes
talk under you: yes, I love
you both, but let’s keep it
softcore for me on the phone,
babybitches. Love poems to
a Brooklyn library.


Poem for Kate Bernheimer

I took a picture of one of those
handwritten staff pick cards
at the Booksmith on Haight Street

to send to Kate Bernheimer, Economist,
on Marketplace in the kitchen to hear
you on about the history of the silver
bullet in the fairytales of yesteryear. Some
of the strange ones come back to where?
The Tap Room? Yes. The Buffet
with Brenty til we get back to Dots
in Southeast? Well, we’re glad you did.


Poem for Tim Rutili

To Silverlake & Koreatown,
I like what you’ve
done with the place.

What’s a movie but
some suggestion of
a collapsed ocean of
pasts—a possibility
re-articulated, selected,
& laid into light.

I’m on the plane to
LAX hearing you work
in my mind. It was
nobody but you,
Anne Carson’s red,
that northern feel,

& the projectionist adjusting
the levels in the booth
at the Grand Illusion last
night until Solan came in
& I got to smiling again.
So, how’s tricks?


Poem for Aurelie Sheehan

The moment we were on about
the process we were lying
& realized it both later
but it’s good conversation,

Aurelie, from Bluets to sort
of making up what it is
that we think we’re
remembering about
what we try & do.  


Joshua Marie Wilkinson is the author of several volumes of poetry, including Selenography (Sidebrow 2010), Swamp Isthmus (Black Ocean 2013), and The Courier’s Archive & Hymnal (Sidebrow 2014). He lives in Tucson, teaches at the University of Arizona, and works as an editor of Letter Machine Editions and The Volta.