You Don't Have to Explain: Recent Episodes
You Don't Have to Explain
A podcast that traces the process behind writing a single poem, from the moment it begins to whether it ever ends. Featuring one poem and one poet every other week, and hosted by James Fujinami Moore. For full text of the poems and show notes, visit youdonthavetoexplain.com.
“Interior vs. Exterior” was first published in SWWIM, 2019. For more of Sarah M. Sala’s work, visit sarahmsala.com.
Interior vs. Exterior
At my worst, I control the boundaries of my form,
and yet, when divine, the self permeates the
physical world. It’s true: the atoms of our bodies
grieve each other in death just like a color doesn’t
occur alone— but takes meaning from other colors.
The moon was a changeable star that ruled men’s
fate. Water was green and not blue to medieval
cartographers. The complexity of ocher begs
the viewer to grapple with it. We are swiftly
becoming an indoor species. Yet, scientists know
more about outer space than the Earth’s oceans.
Humans brought the natural world into their homes
to combat the rise of machines. Without us
knowing, trees converse via latticed fungi. Gender
isn’t something one is, but does. We are a vast
assembly of nerve cells— the continents longing
for each other.
“Doing Donuts in an ’87 Mustang 5.0, After My Homie Chris Gets Broken Up With” was first published in The Offing, October 2019. For more of Michael Torres’s work, visit michaeltorreswriter.com.
Doing Donuts in an ’87 Mustang 5.0, After My Homie Chris Gets Broken Up With
I want to argue for the stars but I find them missing
through this window splattered with mud. Tonight,
I sit shotty and do not ask Chris if he’s okay. This is
the kind of loyalty I know—how the Mustang
makes eights across a soccer field. I run my hand
over pennies Pepsi-ed to the center console. That photo
of his ex still blocks the speedometer and the next
few years of his life have already begun to carve
a cave. I pluck pennies into my palm. It doesn’t
take long for this story to burn through the field.
The safety belt shocks my collar. Chris turns and aims
for a gate without easing off the gas. I yell Fuck itto whatever I can’t hear him say. And isn’t that why
I’m here?—to watch chain-links swell in his headlights.
I disappear the pennies with my fist.
“Dead Horse Bay” by Suzanne Highland was first published in Iron Horse Literary Review #21.2, Summer 2019. For more of Suzanne Highland’s work, visit suzannehighland.com.
Dead Horse BayI plead into my phone
for you to pick up your phone.
Meanwhile, branches draped
in Spanish moss and beaded garlands
glint from the gathering
of pine trees, outposts
at the edge of the land
where slaughtered horses
keep their graves. You pick up
glass from the sand:
brown bottle necks, broken
amber ware, bluish
shards stamped
TABANERO CIGARS.
You come up
from the water saying
wow, look at this,then hold out your hand
and I look at it.