Maw Shein Win lives in Berkeley, California. Her writing has appeared in such journals as Shampoo, SoMa Literary Review, 2River, No Tell Motel, Big Bridge, and Glass: A Journal of Poetry and has work forthcoming in pacificReview. She was an Artist in Residence at Headlands Center for the Arts and has an upcoming residency at Can Serrat in Spain.

Three Poems

the other night

protusio acetabuli. an uncommon condition of the bones. the socket protudes

into the pelvis. the specialist warns of breakage, complications on the table.

somewhere a red tailed hawk. a young man running up the stairs. palm

leaves about to fall. a dangling heartbeat.

she is in the bauhaus room. four rectangular windows, donated furniture. remnants from former inhabitants in the desk drawer: blackened candle wicks, coins from poland.

the ilium, the ischium, the pubis. The protrusio may progress until the femoral neck impinges against the pelvis. a condition to be accepted or defied.

the rumor is that the house is haunted. outside the windows the leaves lie

on the ground. morning glories beautify and suffocate the pine tree.

traces of every person loved or unloved held in her hips.

the gaps. the spaces.

ash, leaves, bones.

the moon dark red the other night.

The indexing of sensation

It will be four days until the air lifts to the vaulted ceiling.

Old women come into the library and pass flowers into his hands.

Put these in water, honey, have a nice day.

He pushes the cart down the carpeted aisle.

The repetition of movement is a meditation.

The Art of Benin, Paula Ben-Amos  N 7397 N5C5

Anno’s Counting Book, Mitsumasa Anno   PZ 7A5875

The Forgotten Ones, Milton Rogovin   TP  820.5 R64

The Balloon—A Bicentennial Exhibition   TL 615 B34

Maps of countries that don’t exist anymore.

The archiving of fantasies.

The referencing of systems.

The indexing of sensation.

The windows are haunted swing sets.

sometimes she is captivated

her hand is long and freckled

and has touched

the cheeks of lonely men

a hummingbird with its tongue out

he likes to ride his bike

to her apartment

although his hands

are bruised and bloody

the mirror in her bedroom is oval

and framed with plaster roses

she blows pure smoke

onto her reflection

sometimes she is captivated

and wants to seize

those damned hummingbirds that

follow overhead and shake

the beauty out of them