Three Poems
Leora Silverman Fridman


You can't see my penis in this
one, only waves of cloth inbreeding
with their countries of origin. China has
the advantage of no pretensions
of indolence. Like ships with princesses
arching their backs upon the bows,
the country is a woman of substantially
aged materials. She is excused
shirts hemmed like drapery, as well
as feminine scents splashed, and cheaply-made
models of conquering


The kind of watch was pulled
skin. Not like pork but like
aliens. It kept time
with the windowless
questions. Where are you that
we have bumped. Into each
other there isn't much
stacked here. Our high school
is storm panes. Reaching
for the word "fiancée" and not
smoking. Having all this
subway time. Having all this
probability. Belted by having
a supposition of place. In here
there are stations. Be alone
in one. Do not be alone.

We might imagine terribly

Here in the airport are your socks you
lost. Without them you have become a bug-
eyed mender of willingly cropped algae. I can

see you from here. I am waiting for kelp. Under which
I am waiting for some other kind
of ragged. With all this mud

in the water, you can make a dive
and never see the soup of it. With all this padding
in your sneakers, all you could do is float.