A poem by Jake Goldwasser

from issue 94

TRANSLATION OF NO PARTICULAR LOVE SONNET

Having traced the contours of your hips,
I come to you as to a family pet.
I know those eyes contain a map of all of
my belongings: my valise, my handkerchief.
Before you I become small-town, proverbial:
I’m linen-dry, you teem like heavy rain.
My belt cracks. My map frays,
threadbare from a city flat of moths.

Here is th…