The Brooklyn Rail

MAR 2016

All Issues
MAR 2016 Issue

BRAIN FLOWERS (from Making Water)





Play classical music for the plants. Shale that once clasped

a shell to its heart ranged around the terrace. The gardener

cuts the bark to show me it bleeds a milk. Perfect stairs drawn

up into a rock, record of centuries






Rain/chicken pox/parasites/

the purity of boredom













Droplets drip down the tips, inverted translucent bells of

Forgetting. He’s gone now, but had been to study datura

with the native people. She said ‘that dense atmosphere’

there eyes stud the foliage







running down the spiral

stairs during light

















Processed to powder in urban bars in the capital. Take

off your shoes give me your car keys sit on the ground.

The houses’ high-walled enclosures blink with broken

bottle shards, bougainvillea below









the complete


an amnesia













Suppression of proper motor functions / the will

Memory loss serums introduced to the Garden by its

own fruit. They’ll say look at the fallen world and

we’ll look North






Flying ointments for young initiates. My eyes are open

but I can’t see



















Piel Roja smoke climbs around afternoon sunlight. Sunday,

listen to him speak on the effect of rock v. classical in plant

growth. The “farm” a cement house in the jungle ground

gives way with orange ferment/fallen vine





















Plant sentience explained in the book with a Rousseau

painting on its face. The lion eats his repast, behind

vine and bird of paradise. When asked to draw Eden,

she reproduced this






Days speaking one tongue, years another. It makes you

feel imaginary



















Henri never saw the jungle. It was possible for him to

paint that place of total non-identity in which the lion sits.

I’m a primitive placeholder for meaning folded into the leaves

of experience






Imagination was that fallen middle

-class world




















The heart muscle by nature weaker in the very tall circulating

blood through long limbs. Mocking the height of mountains

in North America, pointing to our Alps in Chile. It was early

Six, when he died on the sofa










Laura Jaramillo

Laura Jaramillo is a poet from Queens, and is the author of Material Girl (subpress, 2012). She is a doctoral candidate at Duke University where she is writing her dissertation on experimental film in Spain and Latin America. She lives in Durham and is an occasional film and book critic for various local and national outlets.


The Brooklyn Rail

MAR 2016

All Issues