Bricks scream. It is the hottest day of the year, and this is saying something. It is saying that the air is a suicidal Mobius strip around itself and the inhabitants of the city are caught up in the tightening. No one gives a damn about decorum anymore; one quick glance at apartment building windows at dusk tells nothing but the truth, if the truth is there to be told. The women and the men walk around without covering, their heads tilted back in reverence to the ceiling fans that only suggest relief. Everyone sweats and smells of themselves. The body becomes a bundle of rising. The body becomes a rippling pool of bettering. The body melts and overtakes the last drop of water in the world. This is a fact, predicted on the internet. Tonight, the city will try to save what little is left of the grid and the grit. The news anchors will still go to work. Those kids will still dance on the motionless trains. But other than that, the difference looms large. The planners and plotters will turn down the dial, encourage our stillness, squirrel away all the power they can.
To celebrate National Poetry Month we are again presenting an April Celebration: 30 Poets/30 Presses (#ArmchairBookFair21), a feature we initiated last year to help promote new releases whose publicity opportunities were thwarted due to the pandemic. Please join us every day for new poetry from the presses that sustain us.