miriam

ALT An image of a poem (“On the Reproduction of Images”) by Miriam Alex. It reads “On the Reproduction of Images, Past / At the beginning of time, / before the sea and the single-called,/ was film. Every little moment used to mean everything to us — / clementines, basketed and bathing in a pool of light, the gentle / ellipses of a robin’s pale egg — / and nothing at all. When it was warm, / we couldn’t remember the rain. / How could we? The light dim, / the camera ruined. / On the Reproduction of Images, Present / On your birthday, the neighbors / lounged in the kitchen. Your poured / the tea; I shut the bedroom door, / our clothes piling by street dogs. / After, you say a little mess / is unimportant, and we argue. Later, / all I find dated on the day / of your mother’s divorce is a vintage”

ALT Image of a poem on a table. Excerpt from “On the Reproduction of Images” by Miriam Alex. A portion reads “stamp. A receipt for a toasted, / sesame bagel. A spot of jam / blooms at the corner of the paper, / purpling beneath the window. / I don’t remember when we met, / just that we had. Sometimes, I wish / there was a love letter to name / the date, just to prove that it happened. / In the spring, I find another magazine / beneath your socks. The bodies / are pink, impossible. We fight again, / louder. Our anniversary leaks through our hands. You blow out / the candle. We cut the cake. / On the Reproduction of Images, Future / Every autumn, you ask for a photo / of us, laughing over Niagara Falls. / Every year, we look like tourists, / our ponchos bright and yellow. / You never mind. This is enough / for you — the record will stay full, / never waning. Look at that smile / you’ll say, and I’ll believe it every time. / On long days, I imagine a curator / writing about us.”

ALT Picture of page. Excerpt from “On Reproduction of Images” by Miriam Alex. It reads “Windows down. Cheeks flushed. / The sky as blue as a robin’s egg, / or hands left in the snow. This, / says the caption, is everything one / could want. How stupid we must have / looked. How loving, how happy”

ALT A poem called Zombie Fiction by Miriam Alex. The text reads: Know that here, our sheets lay warm. Somewhere, a doctor lights a candle and prays. I remember how the cat licked where you used to hold, how my jaw clicked at collared shirts on sale. I medicated for heartburn when running past the cellists, felt for cysts at the scent of fresh rain. I suspect some part of me died, but no one can place it. I still think of your body rising from our bed, half-animate, mumbling about embargos and taxes and patience. When I call for you by habit, your name slips out a long, rotted note. The cat whines at the sound. What’s left of you still eats carelessly.

ALT Excerpt from short story "Wedding Fever." "Marcus was easy, and I appreciated that about him. When I told him the wedding had been canceled, he'd been sweet and uncomfortable, yielding half of our "non-refundable" retainer within minutes and offering me our somewhat-edited engagement photoshoot. I told him it was fine. I couldn't stand to see another hundred photos of Sam and I, anyways. I wondered if Sam had ever thought to ask for the photos, or return anything. With his shiny new IB job, he had the finances to leave it; he could have covered another three of these weddings, in any case. I offered to pay for half the wedding as a matter of principle, but I'd also never expected him to strand me in this bleak, unyielding ocean of debt. It's funny. Of all the things I questioned about Sam over the years, it was never his loyalty to me. Things change, of course. Men leave their fiancées for the Himalayas and for their coworkers."