Read the introduction by guest editor Sawako Nakayasu.

 


Poor Waif 1

 

You know women
Owe women, in my
Family fair, where
We are not, are they
Are we not slept,
Never, the future is in
Machines constantly
Slamming, I am papa
To no man, health
Dept so wary having
So fisted a pallid lap,
Loose you hang or
Head back when
Your mutter is too red
And clear, possess
A soul that happens
Which is to wonder
How the lake in
The heavy lids of
Itself looks for guidance
Among some filthy
Counseling rocks
I owe my mom rocks
To hold the muumuu
Down shimmery
Ice-pops wait in
Terror of terror
Swing to you, listen
<<This is my furni-
iture. I bought it.
It’s mine.>>

 

 


Poor Waif 2

 

All extra pinafores
Down by the front
Entrance, now
You owe me one
Unspoiled, hand-
Written piece of
Dad’s arm before
It was a dotter of
Scottish skies when
Excrement dug
Into by cops for in-
Sider tomato synne
Foamates, bless
You inside rags in
Rooms wall-papered
With repetitive po-
Tater chip grammar
Effervescent own,
It’s your own hurry
I am weary hurry

 

 


Poor Waif 3

 

In white sheets fall
Is growing, I live
Near blondeness
Too rhythmic for a
Second-best hold
It annoys him very
Much to have to turn
Around to see what’s
Behind him, mewing
Point of a crescent
Moon hangs ambi-
Valence forever
Cow’s hopeful way
Blent seems like a
Ripped ridge where
Knowledge is pow
Seems like we hurt
Wanting it faces
The phone in red
Crosses by thresh-
Old felt a whole
Company that utters
A great shout and
See blend defined
One no saves stone
Roses calcifying n’
Shake and betray in-
Ducement, last week
You came here,
Smashed in cotton cage,
Said you were my
Love, I said I have
All this cusp

 

 


Poor Waif 4

 

Mine is the first myth
Open and polar, a no-
Win tardy opp-
Ortunity ost conserva-
Tive, outcome liberal
A pastille once red
Stronger, ungracious
Airs milk sobb-
Ing helps taste earth-
Enware, a guy’s de-
Meaned breath or
He’s glass gird-
Les contrarily now I
Detain purplish-
Black foam poss-
Ible in part by how
I returned to the
Farm and set really
My things down
Saying this is how
I like porcelain Stet-
Son so moving them
For your portrait
Of hall large
Man needs it silver in
Driving is violent.
And slumming
In order to advance,
I feel my steps
Quicken in the fall
And make a slow
Fire or water bath

 

 

Note: Previous versions of the "Poor Waif" series have appeared in Well Greased Vol. II, Krispy Kremes.

 

 


Corina Copp is a poet and playwright living in Brooklyn, New York. She's most recently the author of Marauder (forthcoming, Minutes Books) and Pro Magenta / Be Met (Ugly Duckling Presse 2011). Recent poetry and criticism can be found in CLOCK, Boston Review, BOMB, Cambridge Literary Review, Wild Orchids, and other journals. Her plays include Tell No One (Invisible Dog/SPT 2011), WALTZ (E. 13th Street Rep 2010), and A Week of Kindness (Ontological/Brick 2007). Copp is a curator with the Segue Foundation and a recent editor of The Poetry Project Newsletter (2009-2011).

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