Discover millions of ebooks, audiobooks, and so much more with a free trial

Only $11.99/month after trial. Cancel anytime.

Dig
Dig
Dig
Ebook87 pages42 minutes

Dig

Rating: 4.5 out of 5 stars

4.5/5

()

Read preview

About this ebook

Bryan Borland’s third poetry collection examines what it means to dig—to undertake the intense labor of unearthing the personal/political/artistic self and embracing the consequences of that knowledge. These poems assert that to dig is to reveal the bedrock on which we may rebuild ourselves; to discover the beauty and reward of life buried deep within us—no matter how many layers of earth we need to overturn.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherBookBaby
Release dateSep 16, 2016
ISBN9780990516996
Dig
Author

Bryan Borland

Bryan Borland is a Pushcart-nominated poet from Little Rock, Arkansas, and the owner of Sibling Rivalry Press. His first book, My Life as Adam, was one of only five collections of poetry included on the American Library Association's "Over the Rainbow" list of notable LGBT-themed books published in 2010. He is the founding editor of Assaracus, the only print journal in the world dedicated exclusively to the poetry of gay men. His work has appeared in Gay & Lesbian Review Worldwide, Breadcrumb Scabs, Referential Magazine, vox poetica, Ganymede, and Velvet Mafia, among others. For more about Bryan, visit his website at www.bryanborland.com.

Related to Dig

Related ebooks

Poetry For You

View More

Related articles

Related categories

Reviews for Dig

Rating: 4.5 out of 5 stars
4.5/5

2 ratings0 reviews

What did you think?

Tap to rate

Review must be at least 10 words

    Book preview

    Dig - Bryan Borland

    Do

    DIG

    You want the dirt,

    all the sin and tendon

    you think are under these nails. I beg,

    instead, forget ten years of my life.

    Let’s redact the documents, change

    the sheets on the bed. Draw lines

    through names and dates. Relationships

    are never linear. Let’s start, if we must

    start, at the last end we know, the slime

    of those boys we buried in the yard. Or start

    the story in our middle, with two dogs

    pulling us down this path, far enough along to

    know we survive. Deep enough that

    questions turn to statements.

    What is a poet? What is a husband?

    Forget there was a time we didn’t know

    one another. Don’t ask

    about candles of ceremony. What meals

    were eaten from these plates.

    If you must remember something,

    remember this: I am a poet.

    You hear I was a husband.

    Or some form of that word

    before I was your husband.

    You had lovers, too. We bring

    ink to this, books from other tribes,

    societies whose languages had

    nothing of what we are together.

    A FORM OF THAT WORD

    WEATHER, THIS

    Dear Bryan   the storm is soon

    to begin   I write not in warning as you

    will appreciate the autumn flowers

    you always wanted The herb garden   fragrant

    basil and rosemary you think dead from drought

    will come alive again in September

    Instead I write to bolt down your bones

    scarecrow they turn out to be   You already know

    the direction of these winds   The strange

    chill of a home in the beginning of wane

    A week from now you will be tucked into bed

    by a lover who will stab you in your sleep

    You will swim in bloody pools

    He will tell you dreams and poems mean nothing

    Listen   dream this poem

    How this rain will grow you

    a family   How some part of you

    remembers the hunger of time   smells

    the blood   sees your prints in the mud   We are

    powerless to what is by right of nature ours

    these lunar pulls   these campfires warm   you night-

    bathed when you’ll swim together   two

    untamable things in the breathing river   Your arms

    will fold like paper birds around him Your histories

    will circle starving beasts soon to eat You’ll make

    shelter of every crater and scar   Every pain

    a guide   Everything is instinct

    THE BODY IS A DAMN HARD THING TO KILL

    While I sleep beside him   the body is

    in motion I plead for quiet

    The body is constantly talking back

    I say anniversary and ten years

    The body says not yet When I find

    comfort the body thirsts for

    discomfort The body grows

    bored by its own heart so it becomes

    the eater of hearts I do not realize until

    I taste the blood Then I am faced with

    two choices   compassion or rage If

    compassion   the body becomes

    a vehicle I merge with the body

    If rage the body becomes an impossible

    skill to master though

    I will try I will try by closing my eyes

    but all I see is another body

    CHEATED

    How I didn’t

    follow him into the bathroom

    go to him beyond the havoc

    light of morning allow my hand to

    read the story beneath his waistband

    make the first

    Enjoying the preview?
    Page 1 of 1