ISSUE 15
February 2001

Steven Cordova

 

Steven Cordova, a Texan, lives in New York City. His poems have appeared or are forthcoming in Barrow Street, Callaloo, The Journal, Puerto del Sol, and in the anthology Ravishing DisUnities: Real Ghazals in English, published by Wesleyan University Press, October, 2000.


Testing Positive    Click to hear in real audio


The universe at times is simply that
above—often a naked light bulb disturbs.
Larvae make their earth in a chest of blond-
wood drawers; winter breaks and a sweater
slips over me—a fabric thin with holes.
Above me, men's eyes have starred open,
collapsed to seism. The universe when they fell
off me became cliché, became cracked ceiling.

Why fear my rise to the water-stain peel of death?
Today I watched an old man in a barber's chair.
His universe was the woman who, mortician-like,
clipped, circled, her legs scissoring air,
her breath and comb caterpillars on his face,
and how she trimmed his eyebrows with great care. 

 

 

Steven Cordova: Poetry
Copyright © 2000 The Cortland Review Issue 15The Cortland Review