Brooklyn Copeland







Morning life:
mewling robins

with beaks like origami
awaken hungry

among the tangle
just beyond the pane.



















Bonhomie: it’s not knowing
how to smile,
but the way.

Late last night I listened
to the river swell.

In the past, I’ve seen
water slow and things float,
no longer carried by

the sureflow of northsouth.
















While she may be
having made
herself tiny: a
negligible seed.
While she may be

to some land
where gardenias
are farmed,
honeythick and
pale as wax,
for perfumes
that old ringardes

will wear between
the velvet
walls of their
all come-hither
for the son

of their










The broken fasted waste:
not the recommended

iodine. Too many mercuries
to ensure this one normal: or,

I Will Not Be A Mother,
not how I think.

Make every eaten chance
ten fingers, ten toes.

Girl, boy, halfsuch?
Another seed from the river:

on a plate, in a cradle,
or just beyond the pane.















Now that the sun

is realized, what else will go wrong this summer?

Just this: a page dressed in white, trimmed
in navy blue: how she curtsies.

I study her. How to let the ink dry on her. Whichever
move I make, I betray her, you:

a.) to say right now I’m not writing about you, or thinking about you, is not quite the same treachery as playing this-here’s not a pipe, this-here’s not an apple.

b.) It’s all pipes and apples, and most of it dissolves

c.) in the moment between tongue and teeth. If I’m writing

d.) about you, if I’m thinking about you; if

e.) I’m writing about her, then I’m still in bed,

staring out the window,
wondering if I’ve bled.


Brooklyn Copeland lives in Indianapolis. She blogs at