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Evan R. Burton

Years: 2008


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.