Lauren Haldeman

Dear Manantalán, I Can't Breathe
New Poems From the USA


Good morning. All is well. Sharp turns.
We are entering the mountains.
What’s that you have, Administrator?
A cracked egg, full of jerky and sand.

I’ve shoulder-strapped the accoutrements:
The coupé-filled pill, the traitor flask.
At the first village, it is all procedure.
At the second, there’s vapor. Fog. There’s fences.

We apply the flask to the magistrate.
Everything done according to data.
I can scarcely realize where we’re going.
A green vein is nothing but a little green splatter.

With the afternoon, comes a new outbreak.
You apply the broth.
I begin to realize a vessel-shaped nest.
The water comes from the Jaguar’s mouth.

The Bridge of Ovens. Bridge of Wolves.
Vanilla Bridge. The Bridge of Death.
No molester a la fauna Silvestre. Then
hello. Good evening. Most Exquisite Guest.