History of Violence, Volume A
Sort of kind of after Ted Berrigan’s “The Sonnets: L”
Keyed up, you walk with the metal
Sticking out from your fob.
Jezail——various——musket——various.
Gunfire or fireworks: a fun game to play every Fourth of July;
Everyone is a detective these days.
Anything could happen. A bullethole in your gastank.
Very funny, or is this tragedy at its
Core. She hands me an apple.
“Mama, I didn’t eat the seeds.” No need to spit the poison.
Xiphoid: sword-shaped;
Toledo: a city in Central Spain, famous for its swords since century one.
Question the sword, the shovel. Never those carrying them.
Love as a landmine, step carefully. Life’s
Your dream, not love. Live.
Zaragoza Arms Factory and the student strike of 1968s
Failure to rid any country of its guns.
Nomads or people who ran out of gas? Keep a white flag to wave in your vehicle.
Run.
Dreams or nightmares stirring like creamer into coffee, diluted until
Pop: dreams are air & we’re awake, is this the nightmare?
Orange plus, the rainbow herbicides.
“Whatever is going to happen is already happening,” Berrigan says.
Is that ignorance or bliss? He likes to beat people up. Fists, I imagine.
He drinks his coffee black. Caffeine shakes as snipers’ misses.
Umbrellas wielded by fiends can be weapons, too.
Blast it to hell, blast it all to hell, but do it in couplets.
I Don’t Know How to Say This
razor-sharp thin line the dog
sprawled out on the bed how
an infant flails her hands without
purpose my dad says it’s genetic
this not knowing what to do
with your hands.
the line between I can move mountains
& I will move mountains, how the future
feels a mountain away, a big cloud away,
the sun on a rainy day away, how the future
feels blue & far & unnatural
like the ingredients list on the gasdrops
how I don’t want to give them to you
anymore your hands with purpose
pressing the bink to your lips
are they flanged I don’t know I am losing
confidence in my abilities to water you
like a plant to stay off my phone to do something
with my hands worth you mimicking.
tonight it’s cold and we hide
our hands but if only you knew
I was writing you gardens
on my phone all the lilies all
the potatoes how your daddy
lets you wail & flail because
his back hurts how I don’t know how
to say this but I am a mountain
you are a mountain he
is a mountain our valleys
so deep sometimes so apparent.
Kimberly Ann Southwick (she/her) is an Associate Professor of Creative Writing and English at Jacksonville State University in Alabama. She is the author of the debut full-length poetry collection Orchid Alpha (Trembling Pillow Press, 2023). She founded and edited the literary-arts journal Gigantic Sequins, from 2009-2026, when it began a semi-permanent hiatus. She is a member-at-large on the board of the Emily Dickinson International Society. You can read her recent work in American Poetry Review, Susurrus, Oscillations, and more. Find her on social media via @kimannjosouth or visit kimberlyannsouthwick.com for more. Kimberly’s favorite historical revenge story is the Philadelphia Eagles’ first Super Bowl win, over the New England Patriots——specifically the Philly Special, which came on 4th and goal after Tom Brady failed on a similar play, not on fourth down and not anywhere near the endzone——she has said, since that day, that play is “the greatest fuck you in sports history.”
