Evan R. BurtonWebsite
Evan Burton lives in Harlem. He is an MFA candidate at the City College of New York and a first year fellow. He thinks of poetry variably, as a space ship, a possibility, an angry something; as an art perpetually disappointed by its practitioners, as something to do on Sundays, as an alternative to employment, and as the only umbrella for his rainy brain.
Michael Phelps punches your mother
in the face, and you admire his technique.
It happens in the kitchen. You search for silverware
to make a scale. Two forks a ten. A corkscrew eight.
All spoons are decimals. Michael’s a good guy
you think. You tell your friends how he left a bruise:
red, white and blue. At dinner that night,
in front of the TV, your mother puts frozen peas
on her eye. You tell her: Careful Ma,
you’ll miss the long jump. She takes the peas down
and lets them chill in her lap.