Issue #28.1 Four Poems by Ann Pedone
from Par.thenon
The Parthenon’s language is
unconvincing. Its
language is almost thought. Its
language
is an instrument. Its
language is easily
eroticized but quickly forgotten.
Its language is theatrical as a white turnip.
*
The Parthenon has no
interiority to speak of. The
Parthenon has no exact
point of origin. The Parthenon
is covered in
plastic. Thick
ovarian plastic.
*
The Parthenon
is a name. It is a name.
I want to
carry it in my mouth.
I want to
carry it in my
uterus. Sea-green.
Frothy. With all of its
tender hair
spread out on the pillow.
*
Narrative. The Parthenon is locked up for
the night. Narrative. A shock to the system.
I fetishize it. It is a prelude to what is
lyrically possible. It’s this possibility that
concerns me. That arouses me. It makes
me wet. Narrative. There is no human
sound in the Parthenon. Only the sound
of marble. And dust. Narrative. If I could
plant something here. Dig something up.
Narrative. I dilate. This was thirty seconds
ago. Or five years ago. Or two weeks
from tomorrow. Narrative. I squat down.
I pee. I cover up the pee with dust.
Narrative. The Parthenon is an egg or two
mixed with lemon. A story of seduction.
A story of curvature. A story of loneliness.
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Ann is the author of The Medea Notebooks, The Italian Professor’s Wife, The Best Kind of Love (If a Leaf Falls Press, 2025), as well as numerous chapbooks. Her poetry, non-fiction, and reviews have been published widely. Her project “Liz” was a finalist for the 2024 Four Way Books Levis Prize. Ann graduated from Bard College and has a master’s degree in Chinese Language and Literature from UC Berkeley. She is the Founder and Editor-in-Chief of antiphony: a journal & small press.
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