Diamond Sutra

posted Jan 19, 2016

Language as troika,
drag, kitchen rag.

Worth as defined,
in wifedom, by the 4 Cís

on your bloody solitaire.
Grind my bones to dust

with mortar and pestle, Lord,
but Iíll, prone like Lazarus,

only rise, rise, rise.
Intrusion, occlusion.

What have I learned
in the liminal world?

Ten thousand allegories
and not one of them mine.

Virginia Konchan is the author of Vox Populi, and a collection of short stories, Anatomical Gift (forthcoming, Noctuary Press), Virginia Konchanís poems have appeared in The New Yorker, Best New Poets, The Believer, The New Republic, and Verse. Co-founder of Matter, a journal of poetry and political commentary, she lives in Montreal.

We’ve published two more poems by Konchan: “Venus Anadyomene” and “Cemetery Montparnasse.”