“prophetic shitface
walking down turmeric aisle
some part of you still sensitive to talking
so much
talking
revolving door and
open can of beans
and the thought of clasped palms”
Prathna Lor’s second poetry chapbook joins oblique objects with the tender edges of parataxis and longing. 7,2 is full of the solidity of the hard-won image: inside one finds tiny carnages mixed with rejuvenation; the tickle of epiphany narrowly escaped; the freshness of a syntax hardly worn. Here is a lesson in the benevolent contradiction of how speaking hurt nourishes.
Softcover, staple-bound.