Episode 50: An Excuse for a Buffet

Love is in the air as the gang gets together on Valentine’s day to feature two poems by Emma Hine: “I Wake Up in the Painting by Rousseau” and “The Red Planet Counts Her Craters“. Tune in to hear the lamentations of several of our editors as they discuss Valentine’s day Emma Hine is from Austin, Texas, and holds an MFA from New York University. Her work has previously appeared in Arts & Letters, Gulf Coast, Hayden’s Ferry Review, Ninth Letter, and The Missouri Review, among others. She currently lives in Brooklyn, New York, and works at the Academy of American Poets. Listen on and hear the fate of these two pieces! Let us know what you think about this episode on Facebook and Twitter with #MarsBuffet I Wake Up In the Painting by Rousseau                                                        This time he, the sleeping figure, I, the lion, my pupils round in their egg-whites,                                         night-wind                                                         angling his scent dunewards. He has surprised me. I never expected a human in the sand                                          like a god fallen                                                         asleep, a bare-throated mandolin on the pillow beside him. I smell the striped shoulder                                          of his robe.                                                         Don’t know which path he took across the desert. On the nightstand we keep a lamp,                                          a vase,                                                          a digital clock. Beneath the blue walls I hold the moon in my teeth and breathe on it, feel no                                         devouring dread.             The Red Planet Counts Her Craters     The way Mars is bolted in place, all she can see is the sky. She recites red sky at night, sailor’s delight until her atmosphere shimmers. She hopes             that from everywhere else, she’s visible, the brightest storm brewing in this big wide sea. She converts sensations into units of distance and units of force, so that each time a body collides with her,             she can add it to her catalogue of impact: where, how hard, how long the tremor. She lifts the oxide dust gently from a crater and says asteroid at an oblique angle,            seventy-eight miles across. She does this just by feel. No looking. Which might be why she so loves the probes. When they land, she goes as still as she can, so they won’t startle and unlatch. She wants them           always charting her shoal plains. When one enters her gravity too slowly and bounces away, she wonders what went wrong. She imagines it lost out there without context, how it wanted her,            couldn’t touch her, or stay.   Present at the Editorial Table:  Kathleen Volk Miller Marion Wrenn Tim Fitts Samantha Neugebauer Jason Schneiderman Engineering Producer:  Joe Zang