by Mark Olival-Bartley
My mask is misted; feet, aswim in sweat—
it's thirty-seven centigrade within
this thickly gilded condom of a suit
whose pissy, jaundiced hue engenders fret
among those safe outside and peering in
who gasp at vomit born of spoiled fruit.
Note: A recitation can be heard here.
- Mark Olival-Bartley
- Mark Olival-Bartley teaches English, tutors composition, trains teachers, and advises a literary circle. He studied applied linguistics at Hawaii Pacific University, attaining B.A. and M.A. degrees in TESOL, and poetry at the City College of New York. He is now anatomizing the prosody of E. A. Robinson’s sonnets for his dissertation at LMU Munich’s Department of English and American Studies, where also he edits a poetry weekly. His poems and translations have appeared in journals on both sides of the Atlantic. He is the resident poet at EcoHealth, where his science-themed verse is regularly featured, and a senior copyeditor of Review of International American Studies.