Welcome to the 30/30 Project, an extraordinary challenge and fundraiser for Tupelo Press, a nonprofit 501(c)(3) literary press. Each month, volunteer poets run the equivalent of a “poetry marathon,” writing 30 poems in 30 days, while the rest of us “sponsor” and encourage them every step of the way.
The volunteer poets for June are: Kristina Byas, Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson, Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason, Jingyu Li, Shane Moran, and Stefanie Zito.
If you’d like to volunteer for a 30/30 Project month, please fill out our application and warm up your pen!
June - Poem 13
Limbo / Kristina Byas
It’s the holding on to things that have already let us go that almost kills us,
and
hope is enough to let it.
The People Manual / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson
On first read, I got bogged down
on Chapter 2, Eye Contact: When peopling,
do not avert your eyes. Do not stare
at your hands. Do not sigh and look
longingly at the floor. I wanted to be
a good person, but gazes were too much
—admiring gazes, hateful gazes, sly gazes,
gazes I couldn’t quite make out.
Gazes made me want to crawl inside myself
and build a nest. Gazes made me question
myself, made me want to hide. I wanted eyes
that worked. The manual said eyes
are how you make friends, how you connect
with others, how you show confidence.
I wanted to do it right, but I was peopling
all wrong. I turned to the chapter on
troubleshooting: What to do if you can’t people
the way other people people? There were no
directions to reboot. No way to start over.
Just a list of possible people to blame: mother,
father, third-grade teacher, brother, sister,
ex-boyfriend. See Appendix iv for more direction:
If all else fails, you can blame yourself,
which is all really you want anyway.
musique concrète of grief / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason
Loop 1
Bryan Adams’s “Summer of ‘69” off the radio
looped back & forth, rewind & repeat
I hear the ghost of you –
James Bond movies recorded from TBS, here
your face merges in all incarnations looking nothing,
yet everything, like them –
Beatles vinyls, sun-warped, rivering half voices
too fast, too slow, whiskering the needle across
grooves, recycling the grays of your face –
Eared in all these books, barked
in all the doggedness, like your stubborn
sidehauling arms pushing everything off the shelf –
In this one lonely Betamax
all the fuck alone in my basement
with no idea how I got it.
Loop 2
off the radio
looped back &
I hear
movies recorded
in all incarnations
like them
riveting half
too slow
grays of your face
in all these
your stubborn
arms pushing
this one
alone in
idea
Loop 3
off
&
hear
recorded
incarnations
like
riveting
slow
grays
all
your
pushing
one
alone
Loop 4
hear
recorded
slow
all
alone
SHOULDER / Shane Moran
Sangria out of a four-liter jug with a friend (I knew was crushing on me)
Had become a choice of lessons : how to let a dear one down easy,
Or why not give what their mouth asked for—I had
Understood men to take sex despite degrees of desire. Was I not
Lucky to be chosen to’ve earned by existing? I fucked her,
Distractedly. Matching my stroke to the streetlight's flicker, my mind was
Elsewhere. I soon went soft. Embarrassed, I rallied and rushed.
Rough, too rough, she told a friend, who told me I’d lost my friend.
Post-War / Jingyu Li
By Bei Dao, trans. Jingyu Li
Images distilled from dreams
drop their flags at the sky’s edge
The pond has become bright,
the laughter of those missing
makes clear: pain
is a lotus flower’s shout
Our silence
turns into wood pulp turns
into paper, the winter that healed
our writing wounds
TBR/RIP / Stefanie Zito
Sometimes I think about death too much
Maybe it’s a good thing to ponder
To note one's impermanent
And fleeting nature
And how I’m among the “this”
Which too shall pass.
Well, I’ve decided how I’d like to go:
Under the crushing weight of
My ever growing stacks of books.
After all, as it turns out
Curiosity is a chronic condition
And mine seems particularly terminal.
I don’t know which will drain first
My bank account or my days for reading.
Hopefully the former
And hopefully not for a while.
But instead of pulling the plug on me
Please note, my preference:
A solid smothering of my TBR tower.
June - Poem 12
A Study in Perception / Kristina Byas
I wonder
what lives in the shadows between
your light and dark,
beyond the halo you wear with pride,
atop the horns you hide.
One-sided Portrait of My Father / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson
Dad always smelled strongly of cologne. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and a thick mustache. His legs were thick. On Fridays when Ma worked late, Dad would take our orders and come back with what we wanted from McDonald’s. He liked to lay around in scoop neck t-shirts and tighty whities. On the arm of his chair, the remote control was permanently perched like a stuffed a bird. Dad always complained if asked for money, but he gladly bought those expensive sneakers when I was on the basketball team. Dad would start water fights in the summer, turning the hose from the car to us kids without warning. He’d chase us around the yard and even spray Ma if she stuck her head out the backdoor. Dad named himself the “Ribologist,” called all his friends, “Doc” and me “Sweet Pea.” In the middle of dinner, he would stop everything to tell a joke. Usually, he was funny. Dad packed us into the van in the early hours of the morning to take us on vacations. He drove us to the White House, Disney World and New Orleans before the levees broke. Dad read to us every Christmas Eve. He had a tape recorder, and he’d gather us together to sing. There’s a picture of me in a pink taffeta dress sitting on Dad’s lap and crying. In the photo he’s got his arms wrapped around me, and if I didn't know better I'd say he's cooing, “There, there. It'll be alright."
poem with section titles from Control (2019) / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason
PUSH THE FINGERS THROUGH THE SURFACE OF THE WET
● I rise into the air with a hook
● A chain gentles through my sternum
● The wing fells into the porched arch of my lower back
● The chant of heaven emerges from my mouth
● A rain curves around my form like a magnet
– one arm curves into my fascia of song
WE STAND AROUND YOU WHILE YOU DREAM
● Such blood of sleep seeps down on my brain
● My tumor of a dream pulses red light
● My longing for all these hands too cool
● It’s hunger ices its anger, its oil
● On water, I want to wake and arch
– one leg curves against this fascia in song
THE WORD THAT DESCRIBES THIS IS REDACTED
● We grasp like simple objects in ordinary diners
● We long to sleep at the Oceanview motel’s liminal space
● In the door with the Triangle, we’re missing keys and search for them
● Hissing keeps me awake at night like the mouth of Heaven
● We can’t pinpoint resonance outside each door while we try to wake
– one finger curves into my fascia against the song
WE BUILD YOU TILL NOTHING REMAINS
● I can’t lower from the sky anymore
● & I’m not afraid of the red of my blood
● & I’m embracing the blue of my blood
● & I’m excited by the white of my teeth
● & I’m excited by the groundlessness beneath me
– one tongue curves into my fascia song
THE HOLE IN YOUR ROOM IS A HOLE IN YOU
● I refuse to hear anyone else’s “I love you”s
● I refuse to leave myself & mine
● Room in me, I use your pull
● Hand me down from the issue height
● Unused, I love my throat, my might, my ecstasy
– my body curves with fascia in my song
SHOULDER / Shane Moran
Say you could change anything about living—I
Hope it wouldn’t be to go back to the
Old world. I don’t know why this obsession.
Uteruses are rarely on my mind. And when they are, bringing
Life into the world is not my concern. You agree,
Delegating your release of all that unwanted you carry
Everywhere, to the womb of a stranger is a
Retreating. I’ve been more into High Speed Rail.
Grief Umbrella / Stefanie Zito
It’s cumbrous and awkward, and
I don’t always have a place for it.
After all, I’m holding too much.
My arms are sore and
I miss you in them.
I wasn’t ready to receive
this weight passed my way
but now it sticks with me
wherever I go, so
I wrap the folds neatly
when I can, binding and
minding myself
velcroing them closed.
I grip it, clutching memories
taking a brave, weary step
leaning on the steadfast echos of you
through this landscape of loss.
Grief expands and hovers
on its own terms.
It used to be you going with me,
a trusty companion
a canopy to shield.
Now the wind catches
my unwieldy woes.
What good is an umbrella
when soaked in my own tears?
June - Poem 11
Scream Queen / Kristina Byas
I don’t audition anymore;
typecasting has its perks.
Whimpers to blood curdling,
slow chases to Leti Lewis.
I know these scripts by heart,
yet each a work of art.
Raw talent, I claim,
but I’ve been classically trained
to survive
to stay alive.
Here you have your
final girl.
/əˈbjuːs/ (n.) / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson
In my family, we called it Tuesday … dinnertime … discipline … consequences … Christmas … kinda … maybe … our fault … Friday … punishment … correction … biblical … protection … strength … concern … Sunday … nothing … training … order … education …for our own good …love, love.
Haunted House Heart / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason
sometimes these things are just supposed to be known
when the green shutters smash themselves
in the aching yellow morning
sometimes these things are just supposed to be
as I rise and shake winter eyelashes
left as gifts on my pillows
sometimes these things are just supposed to
roll down like skulls and carrots in my garden
mixed together in my dinner stew
sometimes these things are just supposed
partially assumed when children trick
or treat my house with toilet paper
sometimes these things are just
and I don’t burn without|
hatred to guide me
sometimes these things are
the way I left them when I come home
ghosts occupied elsewhere
sometimes these things
decide to be a person knocking
on the porch in slanted sun
sometimes these
remains get slung up
and I’m left alone
sometimes
I’m
not
SHOULDER / Shane Moran
Shall I play 2K or COD for ten
Hours or apply to 100 more jobs?
Only spent 100 dollars on my MyPlayer—
Useless, if I let it go to waste. I’ve been thinking, and
LeBron is a man not worth being jealous of.
Divine gifts are not a matter of human
Economics don’t count how much I’d pay to
Rewatch game 1 of the 2018 NBA finals.
A House in Other Words / Jingyu Li
The Tutelage of Trees / Stefanie Zito
Standing in the surround sound of green
hues, beholding the spectrum
of late spring, nearly summer shades
spanning from gold to blue
lustrous in the freshly finished drizzle.
Thick air hovering
a slow drip of renewal gently
caressing my tender tiredness.
Birds sing me back to life, masking the city
sounds now in the distance, beckoning
me deeper along the path.
These trees share their breath
and raise their branches
gesticulating their wisdom
to live slow is to live well.
I’m still learning how
to sink into the earth
to reach towards the light
to embrace the rain
to relish the sun
to honor dormant days
to savor flourishing ones
to not resist decay
to not rush growth
to trust the big magic of deep time.
Beads of rain leap frog from leaf \
to leaf, descending through the canopy
finding each other like a game of sardines
until their collective weight gives way,
splashing me in surprise.
Startled. Delighted. Refreshed.
I’m still learning
how to let go.
June - Poem 10
Eldest Daughter / Kristina Byas
And now that you’re at ease,
I can finally breathe.
But
only after I’ve tired
only after I’ve cried
only after I’ve bled out,
cut so deeply,
yet completely
unnoticed.
And by then,
I’ve made room for all that has
settled inside the wound.
People call it strength,
mistaking this scar tissue
for skin,
for me.
After Our Father / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson
After this manner therefore pray ye: Our Father which art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.
10 Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.
11 Give us this day our daily bread.
12 And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.
13 And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is
the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.
to our elders / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason
I had to explain to a room full of doctors, some of whom had seen the ghosts in 1981, that AIDS was first known as GRID – one looked at me dead in the eyes & I gave him back my dead eyes as he said, that’s not something I’ve heard of – Gay Related Immunodeficiency. I could have made them more uncomfortable & told them that it was also known as the 4H disease – Homosexuals, Haitians, Heroin addicts, Hemophiliacs – left the room full of cakes & cokes a lot less polite. I could have been a complete bitch & let them know it was called the gay plague – what would a room of doctors born after 1998 have done with that? I could have told then I was in kindergarten when Ryan White died of AIDS & the kindergarten teacher tried at soft & tender about boy, who looked a lot like our older brothers, explain how & why he died, then our parents still whispered fag beneath their breaths. I could’ve told them the song they compliment coming from my office – The Stone Quilt – is the same quilt laid out on the National Mall the last time it was all of it – each piece was the size of a grave – the stones for the ghosts – the mass grave of combusted futures. I could have told them that my mom, so sensitive she worries she isn’t watering her plants on time, said, No, we didn’t lose a whole generation, just look around & I’d find my elders & she showed me lesbians & men long closeted & ghosts. I could’ve sung The Beauty & the Beast like a dirge – lyrics birthed from Howard Ashman, dying of AIDS, but living through art – pushing to see a final rough of his work in his hospital bed – not yet his deathbed – hearing his voice arise from the clicking ether of a film roll, knowing he still had work to do on Aladdin, which he’d never finish. I could’ve thrown up on that projector the jacket IF I DIE OF AIDS - FORGET BURIAL - JUST DROP MY BODY ON THE STEPS OF THE F.D.A. I could’ve slammed my See You In Hell Ronald Reagan jacket, beaded with fire, over the cake & waited for questions. I could’ve cited statistics – doctor’s love statistics – approximate death tolls between 1990 & 1995: 30K to over 60K – 1990 & 1991: Infection rates 80K each year – but all this is approximation when numbers become more than can be seen in a gymnasium. I could’ve screamed about less poetry, less guttural laughs, less arthouse horror, less parents, less glass-smashing trans women raging for rights, less children. To them it’s a scary story to tell in the dark. I was just old enough to see my hometown’s gay bar torched in the deep dark of the night as there were no patrons to protect it. I was drowned in precognitive grief & only felt gossamer slips. Yes, I’m a coward because instead I showed them clips of kids learning about Howard Ashman. I didn’t force them to learn about these dead unionized through the way they died & not how they faced it. I could’ve told them AIDS’ data collection’s only 45 years old, but AIDS is older, the other disease is worse & older still.
SHOULDER / Shane Moran
Sold! The agent slaps the red words on her own face, and I can’t
Help but smile at her on such a beautiful day when my
Only pleasure is walking and criticizing the designs and
Unbelievable waste of the houses on this block.
Looking too long will make me pull out my phone begin
Discussing a ten-year plan with a chatbot on how to
Either to win a house or convince someone to leave me one—
Reiterating that dinking might be the only way I can buy one before 30.
Marbles / Jingyu Li
Time after time I dreamt of marbles,
first the clinking of them
in their transparent bag, then their scattering
and my mother’s voice to keep them close,
lest one roll under the coffee table.
Back then my sadness was unmoored,
back then instruction meant someone
else knew better and that I was safe.
Mother was good at flicking one marble into
another, drawing a thin line
with her pinky. Losing was an art
in staying small. I was bad at marbles and
checkers and chess and that’s how I could sleep
at night. Then I began winning, then all
the marbles gathered in my palm.
Then I was good as dead
and had to let all of them go.
Air plant / Stefanie Zito
I’m like the air plant
hanging in the balance
of the looking glass
seeing everything from
an encased perspective
determined arms, twisting
reaching toward the light
curves punctuated by
spikes pointing every direction
wanting to follow them all.
Fitting right in with a
versatile vibe
low maintenance ways
adaptable and hardy
contained
constrained
exposed.
Soil depth is what I’m after
commitment to place
a tap root to sink
beyond all this yearning.
I’m coming in for a landing.
June - Poem 9
What Makes Him Human / Kristina Byas
His eyes holding hope
His lips learning to smile
His brows full of uncertainty
His lost hands searching
His voice catching on the truth
His heart bruised but open
His feet settling into unleveled ground,
still finding his balance
In All My Dream My House is the One I Grew Up In III / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson
Sometimes I wake myself up
when I scream in my sleep.
(I’m pretty sure we never lived
in the living room.)
I wake up and try to remember
my dreams
—cottonmouth vipers
that slither away.
rankings / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason
I realized that my top 3 smells are all
transitive/short/unlasting
3. hot asphalt right after the rain starts in summer
it’s not petrichor –
what a dank soil smell –
roil here in man made, radiant,
sloughing smell, ripped with gasoline
like us fucking sloppy
2. low tide
I hope it sinks out and in forever
like the sea will salt and stink the earth
in our memories of home, our primal
columbine caverns we’ll return to
1. lilac blossoms blowing in the humid night on a breeze
they surprise, better than sex
I swear, guttural, consumptive,
bloodily violet in its violence
upon my soul. There is nothing else
surrounding. Some stars heating, slowly dying
in universe we’re bound for
Yet – my top three animals
endure/permeate/calcify too long
3. crab
how it sideways steps out of your goddamn
inquisition of its nature, of its purpose
its only use is to be crab, to dance and sift
away and fro, sewing a click and snap
2. crab
eyes stalking out, churched up
faces made for consuming
steadily the matters of earth –
eventually the black matter in this galaxy –
sifting the dark, smashing prey
opening suns, all grains down their gullet.
1. crab
we shall all carcinisify, in hope
of a simple dance, a simple
feast as the universe spaghettifies out,
hopefully I will have mismatched claws
like twin stars orbiting,
bouncing gravity
across each other
rending us apart
in what adoration
SHOULDER / Shane Moran
Snuffing out the bad guys isn’t easy, when they look like
Heroes or foggy mirrors of our fellow struggles
Online. I know women like a clean look, but few things are so
Unalike: take the manosphere, the barbershop, the insides of a
Late twenty-something. Russo cuts my hair and divulges
Drama with his babymama, clicking off the clippers to say
Exactly my point with his face, his eyes ballooning, his gloved hands
Resting on his belly. Rarely does anyone try to tell him. Know to tell him.
In the Cabin, on Prozac / Jingyu Li
Rain thrum and mosquito bites
late noon on the twin bed—
Which is scarier? an empty
mind or a full one? Did I take
the good way out? Listening
to these easy rhythms, thinking
of nothing, these trees not reminding
me of anywhere
my father’s been. Alone
next to the shadow and not thinking
of death. Here across
the bare furniture of my mind, writing
poems, afraid of music
becoming something less
than necessary.
Construction Season / Stefanie Zito
I mostly don’t remember life before
kiddos and construction
machinery, loud and heavy
and accompanying toy miniatures
rolled in around the same time
each churning their upheaval.
Diggers and backhoes and debris oh my.
Postpartum, lactation, and sleepless nights.
Kicking up dust and ample delays, I’m
stripped down to scaffolding
my infrastructure outdated
unearthing detritus of days gone by.
Gridlocked and circling the block
of this slow moving scene
yielding to detours of my own.
Diverging and dodging
bottlenecked to a halt
yet creeping along as I
try to not bulldoze my way.
I build, I change, I repair
I use my life to pave a path
and labor for the long haul.
June - Poem 8
In Good Company / Kristina Byas
We found each other
by accident
by chance
by luck
then stayed on purpose.
No shared blood,
but shared
faults and burdens
laughter and cries
in the space between strangers and kin.
Where home became not only a place I go
but the people who chose me back.
A Shepherd's Prayer / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson
Will nothing quell the bleating of the sheep?
A man is just a man, that I know well;
don’t let those be the memories they keep.
I carelessly led my tender flock deep
into the untamed fields—a violent dell.
Will nothing quell the bleating of the sheep?
I broke their legs simply to see them weep
and watched them quiver in the place they fell;
don’t let those be the memories they keep.
I cannot look at them, I cannot sleep
without seeing their eyes which seem to yell,
“Nothing will quell the bleating of the sheep!”
Those times when I would take my rod and sweep
through the lea like I was under some spell,
don’t let those be the memories they keep.
Lord, I know that what I’ve sown I will reap
until the day I die and go to hell.
Will nothing quell the bleating of the sheep?
Don’t let those be the memories they keep.
On the Restoration of Wells College’s Statue of Minerva’s Head to Her Body / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason
for 156 years of Wells College Alumnae
The Restorationist guilded your severance
with stony glue, aligned you,
with that soft precision as you deserved, rebar
drilled deep into your body and brain, reassuring
her. No one could sidle such love
to ground you headlessness
without alighting your scroll of wisdom.
Your daughters’ grief agonied
waved upon you in rainbow forms:
your rage of war, paradigm of strategy,
Kintsugi of hearts, frozen lake,
geese demanding in the 2 am hush.
Your daughters forever rush to your honor.
Your beheaders didn’t mean –
– they love you too – kissed
your face with fears, lips
raw with the blood of consequence.
Their bodies pushed stark to implications,
to lost jobs, lost paychecks,
a last tryst across your campus.
You forgave them, headless
as you were, but never heartless
You lead daughters in battle
whole, calm in your alcove
breathing in our feathered fears,
exhaling it as arrayed wisdom
we inhaled in return.
When we left your care we kissed
your feet, you deserved
our soft marble savior.
When we arrived to you, home
upon your armored breast, a liminal
space of devotion it was your sacred,
immovable hands that caressed
our scared hearts, forcing our chins up
– look at that world
it is yours
THROAT / Shane Moran
I fear both will soon be with
in heaven: my two Gods.
I hold straw to your brown
bark lips. Your tongue is bar
of dry soap, creeping out,
begging. I say to you
how well you hold bottle
resting in my left hand—
you grab
and ungrab,
take
and untake,
grasp and swat
at everything.
When I was boychild
looking to you,
my Godwoman, you held
my hand and clicked your fingernails
together, telling me,
I love you—infinity.
I believed in infinity then,
when your limbs were in
your control, when you’d spend
your days warning me
about tattoos, and piercings,
extramarital pornography and condomless sex.
Godwoman, Grandmother, first Lord—
I wish I could repent at your bedside
for whatever sadness
I ever brought you.
Still, if Second Lord, whom you spoke into
omnipotence, commands, I must let you die
beside me. And let myself weep
like Mary at Jesus’s ankles,
crying, Lord is dead— but who would want
to speak of that. Lord does not speak at all.
In Lieu of a Love Poem / Jingyu Li
I tried to write a love poem but I painted
a picture instead, and you were ugly and the cat
was beautiful and I wished I had more talent
but it’ll take some time. I tried to write a love poem but
thought it was too cheesy, afraid our friend would crinkle
her nose and say ew! or a classmate would say your poems
would be better if you were heartbroken, so I focused on
the picture, I focused on painting your hairline
not too high, not too low, and whispering don’t worry
you’re not going to go bald, and I don’t know why you’re
so worried about it anyway, you ask me to shave your head
everytime you need a haircut and don’t want
to go to the barber. I could get used to you bald or with
long hair or fur everywhere like an otter. But right now
I still can’t get your face right even though I’ve studied
it from so many angles and times and places, how you bend
the shape of your eyes to make each distinguishable
expression, how you hold the cat just right, the way
she lets you, I can see it through the frame.
Knots / Stefanie Zito
A core memory of mine
seated on the floor
toying with the tangled
cords of a phone line
quietly tracing the loop of tension
slowly unfurling the willful cable
until it fell in line.
I’ve been told how patient I am
praised for it in fact
it’s expected of me anymore
as women have been trained
since girlhood. I’ve stayed tidy–
in my lane, straight and narrow.
Watch me silently sit
with deft and diligent hands
skillfully coaxing the jumbled
snarls given me, luring
them in an orderly queue
like the one I’ve been cued into.
I’ve held my patience
my place in line so long
gripping this cloak of
composure even as the edges
of my fortitude fray.
I sometimes shudder to consider
who I may be were
I to lose it altogether.
It has me in knots
but I’m harnessing the courage of
my own disentanglement, slipping
free from the cordage of control
and securing myself from within.
June - Poem 7
Re-routing / Kristina Byas
Perhaps
I’ll take the
scenic route
back to me.
Conversation Starters to Connect with Your Father / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson
1. Tell me the best memory from your childhood.
2. If you could be an animal, what kind would you be?
3. Don’t worry, I know you love me.
4. There was one time I thought you would punch me in the face.
5. I can’t forget you called me a whore.
6. When I was a child, I wished you dead.
7. The hair you ripped out grew back thicker.
8. I used to pretend I was asleep so you’d pick me up and tuck me into bed.
9. Yes, you were a good provider.
10. I’m sorry someone hurt you.
11. We were too scared to even ask you to play outside.
12. You’re the person I talk about the most in therapy.
13. Of course, I’ll always love you, but—
14. Grownup me feels guilty I wished you were dead.
15. I’ve always known you love me, but—
16. What are you scared of?
17. Tell me two truths and a lie.
The Pigeon Poem / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason
I promised my roommate I’d write a poem about pigeons
about a tiny pigeon cobbler
making little pigeon shoes
for the hot summer days in the red bricks of Boston
about tiny nurse pigeons
caring for tiny wounded pigeons
from out in the war against the raptors
about tiny prosthetists pigeons
making tiny pigeon prosthetics
replacing missing toes and amputated feet
about tiny lawyer pigeons
suing the MBTA
train moving too fast for Dr. P. Columba
about tiny undergrad pigeons
bobbling from class to class
their tiny bird brains crammed in books
about tiny street vendor pigeons
in their tiny food trucks
slapping down food with a foot, taking money with a wing
about tiny pigeon children
flip-flapping to tiny pigeon schools
looking back at pigeon parents heading to pigeon jobs
but not about the ICE agent pigeons
they don’t want to be pigeons anymore
they’re not pigeons anymore
they can’t be tiny, don’t want
the contentment of walking
on cobbled streets, on rock
sure communities –
time to be the fattest pigeon, instead
of a famished pigeon, the pigeon king
my roommate didn’t want me to write about
scary pigeons who are hard
to see amongst the others
their gray and white feathers blending in
that’s until they molt and they’re proud
the skin they’ve pinked
I don’t want to write a poem about pigeons
but they sit next to me when I wait
for the T, plus I know how
to coo in harmony
SHOULDER / Shane Moran
Suppose, your wife will never love you again say,
Happy marriages can range any length of time, really, how will you
Own that? Imagine, it is not ordering a Cybertruck Figure not,
Using some twenty-two year old body to touch on your sad chest
Looking over at your friends the same way you once did at
Duke. Admit it (that) won’t bring you peace. Daresay,
Earmarking what she was always right about
Rarely worked. Oh, friend. Pretend yoga won’t kill ya.
Feeling / Jingyu Li
where art lost me
hands for something swept
where tears lost me
topspun and already
seen
where sleep left me, torched
in purple hands
, and stupor dreamt me
a kiss and something
blue
where a sore of
cornflowers hung unevenly
in terrible corners
and nobody startled
the chickens
Understory / Stefanie Zito
The speed of the day sends
me rushing to the woods.
My disquieted shoulders drop
as I reach the edge of the forest.
A curtain of trees parts
to reveal the woven path
of saplings and shrubs and
all her genius bugs,
the ecological engineers
dutifully tending the terrain.
Leaf litter and humus become
my sensual sanctuary.
I lay myself down
on the forest bed,
I tuck myself into
the layers of understory
within this hidden haven.
I listen to the silent wisdom of
my surrounding sisters,
root myself in their fresh care
and blanket myself in breath.
June - Poem 6
Balancing the Ledger / Kristina Byas
It wasn’t waiting,
not for all little girls,
not for us.
So we became women who
refused
demanded
imagined
endured and
claimed
what we owe
our daughters
when they come.
In All My Dreams My House is the One I Grew Up In II / Shavahn
Because I can’t forget the spiral staircase.
Because the knotty gray carpet, the clawfoot tub.
Because this is the room where we ate dinner.
Because that’s the room where I wanted to die.
Because this is the empty lot we used to play ball in.
Because my husband says I scream in my sleep.
Because the siding was yellow, the shutters brown.
Because my dentist says I need a night guard to keep from grinding my teeth.
Because I don’t remember it being so small.
Because we carved our names in the windowsill.
Because when I hit my son I cried and promised him never to hurt him again.
Because, somehow, I love my father still.
overflow / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason
I pull the dust bunnies
from out under my bed
by hand
I tell you
I love you by hearting
your texts twenty
first century apologies
maybe my smiles always flirt
with the pharmacist who doesn’t
confirm date of birth last name
when I need these refills
on endless pills I’m here
too much
I find eighteen socks
beneath the bathroom sink
none of them
are yours some of them
aren’t mine
out of the attic
I toss down worn flannels
homed with moths spoon
feed on plaid and all
the softer for it
books nestle by height
in drawers as you can’t
reach shelves like I do
right hand slack
you holler about coffee grabbing
the scoop wrong ruins
your morning
half-caff in the afternoon
at midnight you cry in wakefulness
I holler at you
about doing PT every
time I see you, then
every week
then only when I remember
I stop texting you
anything
your number becomes
assigned to someone else
In winter the rotary phone
in your office rings before|I can answer
you sto
I leave your webs
I’ve killed too
many brethren
when I was small now
I sloop you up in my forever
hands and wander you
out the door
SHOULDER / Shane Moran
—for Henry Hart
Siken calmly utters he shouldn’t be alive. If I’m
Honest, does any epiphany come unlike this one, hearing
One mouth moving at a time? (Would like to take a walk with you.)
Unlike Calvoceressi the man I miss is not dead. I’d
Like to believe that Hart is old and done listening to poets
Discussing loss in ballrooms. It has been a while. I know I should
Email, at least a small note of thanks to the first man to
Read Dickinson with me in his softest of voices.
Prisoner's Dilemma: in two parts / Jingyu Li
Prisoner's Dilemma: mother and father, idealized
Prisoner's Dilemma: patriarchy
Cosmos / Stefanie Zito
From summer into fall
I can count on the steady
splendor of your flames.
You bounce in the breeze.
Brightly you rise
and rest on limber stems
enticing the bees
with your sweet nectar.
I watch the choreography of
your stalks, long and slender
You teach me to tango.
I follow your lead,
learning to dance where
I’m rooted for the season.
The bright glow of cosmos–
sun’s clustered echoes
held in a single flower–
a universe unto yourself.
June - Poem 5
Jhene, About What You Said… / Kristina Byas
You mentioned being born tired,
and I felt that in my bones.
I’m still wondering when the ease will come,
when the cycle will break.
I’m sure we’re more than the weight we inherited,
but that doesn’t mean it’s not heavy,
sometimes,
often,
nearly always.
Still,
maybe it’s not destined to remain.
I’ve known many weary hearts
still learn to dance in the rain.
All Fathers Smell a Little Bit Like My Father / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson
momento mori - MRI / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason
PENIS (2) / Shane Moran
To be gone down on? I’ll call an Uber!
After dinner and the rain,
I’m delighted to wrap
my bomber jacket around
your shoulders. It’s cold.
I like watching you smoke
your spliff, hot tip smoking
heat peaceful oblation to feel
time pass. I like your gentle
thumb holding it steady your new
fires stop the canoeing.
And I like how you protect—
the cherry. Your mouth
glazed in Addict
lip glow, I cherish your
wet art opening for a high—
this is Paris, after all.
This is our one almost
riskless way to let it all go
before we lock together
our hazy eyes and taste
our sooty breath,
before my flat and the warmth
of your right hand around it and
the shine off your dotted nails—before
the Uber says to put it out.
Father Nightmare / Jingyu Li
Once I was impressionable: a man could be made
by stacking spheres, pebbles for eyes.
My mother said he could be unmade
with warmth for hands, only the buttons
would keep. Last night a snowman
walked my dreams, I screamed
when he melted because he was everywhere:
my shoes, my chair, even my face
was touched with him. I keep returning
to how quickly it happened
how fatherlike he was and how
starkly different now.
Sometimes I think it’s not even about him.
Canticle for Questions / Stefanie Zito
I’m stretching the strings of what's been unraveled
plucking an altered processional.
gathering the echoes of inherited insistence
drumming to the cadence of crumbled certitude.
I’m writing a hymn for relinquished ritual
humming the elegy of an unfurled grip.
drafting a eulogy of forsaken assurance–
what once was firm has fallen.
I’m composing a canticle for questions,
a requiem for scattered sureness.
Lamentation lives inside my loss of certainty
I set up camp amidst this hazy mystery.
Questions are the quest themselves
so I make my dwelling here
I lift my voice and my life with it–
give glory to wonderment herself.
I sing an anthem to ambiguity and
lift wavering hands of exasperated awe
at the riddle in which we all reside.
I release the interrogation of my own existence
And rejoice in having my life for the living.
June - Poem 4
Rituals / Kristina Byas
They hold me,
keep me barely alive
until survival becomes
living without asking for permission.
Things My Brothers Said / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson
One brother said if I peeled back the bark of a stick and ate it, it would taste just like chicken. Another said I can’t play because I’m a girl. One brother said lightning is more likely to strike me if I hide under the covers during a thunderstorm. One brother said cat food was tasty and pretended to eat it, tricking me into giving it try. One brother said I’m much too quiet. One brother said I’m much too loud. One brother said I was whiny, one said I was weak. Another said bossy, another a bitch. One brother said guys prefer girls with big titties. One brother said I was too fat to live. One said I was stupid, one said a nerd. Another said that he wished I would die. One brother said you’re just like our mother. Another said you’re going to wind up like Dad. One brother said one day my husband is going to love how flexible I am. One brother said he never thinks about me. One said I’m stuck up, one said I’m mean. One said he hates me, one said I’m ugly. Another said things I cannot repeat. One brother held my hand when I was crying, and if he said anything, I didn’t hear. One brother said he never did like me. One brother said we’re practically twins. One brother said he’d love me forever, but after I never saw him again.
Impact / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason
Hydrangeas flourish on my walk to the hospital
and bloom too early in the spring, like fireworks
of copper chloride, burning in loud, hot crackles.
When the loosest petals sail in autumn’s regalia
and spread over the potholed streets, I gasp.
What a beautiful coat cast over the city, grander than I
could feel. The blossoms are spring lights for one
soul, summer breath another, and one heart
stuck inside that hospital, respirator clicking
awake – asleep – awake –
those cascading hydrangeas peak
as the curve of a lover’s cheek
and kiss again and again
to speak, criss-crossed over their eyes,
of a world they held, they could hold
again, as they raise their hand
at the glass, prescribed mercy
though it never lasts.
SHOULDER / Shane Moran
Shower-wet and laying in bed her body in a towel,
Her hair is wrapped, as she watches her Reels
On full blast — each claiming, loving a man is cruel and
Unusual punishment, always costing the woman.
Like a first boyfriend — I lay with my back turned away (hard).
Don’t know how we got like this, but — as
Ever, I’m afraid all I hold will crack. One video jokes: if he likes to circle
Round his finger and lick he is an above-average monster.
Woman Reading / Jingyu Li
— after painting by Eastman Johnson
This is no time for poetry she said
in a time of urgency, it is no time
to sit in a room and feel.
The woman reading is looking both
at the page and through it.
As she looks at herself, she
steps out from her closeness. The sea
disappears behind her, the boat floats
on nothing. She is writing herself
into the poem: this is no time
she reads, shadows
like sails over her eyes.
To lift herself from her landscape
is a great work of fiction. There is no
good time to feel, the woman is writing
or she is reading. In the distance,
the shadows do not hold.
Clothes loose as feathers
are her chosen garments. Yes,
even dreams must bind to
something.
Golden Hour / Stefanie Zito
After the run of the day the sun takes a dip–
a charming show off she is with
her slow motion plunge toward the rocky rim.
As she bows down, her beams
scatter through the fields where
we drench ourselves in her glow,
hosing off what the day has glomed on.
She shapes and softens our shadows
stretching them longer, drawing us
deeper into her amber spell.
Our silhouettes briefly extend
into eons under her ambient illusion.
Her liminal luminance entertains
our delighted deception that
this moment will never end.
When suddenly she slips from sight.
the afterglow of lingering light
spans fleetingly and swiftly fades,
yielding to the mystery of night.
June - Poem 3
Growth Spurt / Kristina Byas
I grew out of the body
I never grew into,
for years, calling it home.
An unfamiliar voice answering to my name,
skin stretched thin over bones that ached and muscles close to atrophy.
Every mirror held this stranger,
someone longing to belong,
searching for proof of herself
in the absence,
wandering for as long as she could,
refusing to say she’s lost.
in all my dreams my house is the one i grew up in / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson
i’m not twelve anymore
but sometimes i’m still scared
of the dark
—the way the light
shines in through the windows
makes shadows on the ceiling
ghosts on the floor
i’ve tried not being
haunted but there’s something
about the paint color
something about the fist-
sized hole in the door
my room is still the room
with the butterfly wallpaper
my room is still the room
at the top of stairs
in some dreams
i’m the mother
in others the daughter
in some dreams i’m the monster
living under the bed
rain on hot asphalt / Jess Tønseth LeeGleason
It’s the plight of thunder released
after the fiend of lightning slaps the sky,
after the silver bellies of the leaves flay the storm.
after the wind cools the sweet skin stuck between our bodies.
after we’ve come down with each other’s fever.
fervorous to devour each hour, wrap onto each other,
to rough across this sky of bones we’ve rooted.
We move into electric lives of atomic infinity between our skin
and that thunder clap ricochet, the hollow in our hands
morph with the silver sides of leaves better than the storm can
rocket our bodies. These temporary bodies rock again
with the span of short rains our frames, storm
and roll as we pass into other countries,
bodies, leaves, and sky – all forgetting where we bared.
In Quiet Times / Jingyu Li
Then rain began like applause,
my nightmares denting the pastures
Even the sea ends somewhere—
Once a mother taught us to begin
at the bounds of things, the puzzle’s
edge, the waking hours. We measure
each other by asking what if.
And what if it ends? Yes, even that,
even fear. How it rises, mounds
of freshly shucked oyster shells grasping
the blue sky. If we stay here long enough
we become the landscape, if we stay longer
the landscape changes.
PENIS / Shane Moran
It desires power, but it rarely comes easy.
Power is the most intoxicating feeling to come to
Understand. Power says this is your kingdom come,
Your body, your will be done. Power’s the ideal stroke.
It takes you, and grateful for you—it grows.
Orderly home. Well-trained dog. Success.
Sex. No Surprise—a door opening, a practical
Stranger welcomes, using Mr. then your name.
Respair / Stefanie Zito
The fresh hope
of rebounding from dark days,
The sudden return
to a better state.
The crisp anticipation
and spry suspense
of pristine expectancy.
The delectable foretaste
of a favorable forecast.
A brisk burst of serene repose.
The pure excitement
and invigorated longing
for what’s here and what more will be.
To breathe again.
In a word, respair.
Hello to this little known, obsolete 16th-century word.
Why did only its counterpart,
despair, persist in our parlance?
Let not the limitations of our acknowledged text
set the stage or direct the path for us.
Words hold such curious power.
So wield the tool of your tongue and
speak it into existence with me:
RESPAIR.
I’m newly learning it
and longing to live it.
Tired of trends.
Fatigued with fads.
Let’s start a full blown craze.
Will you join the movement?
Respair for the destitution of today!
Respair for the penury of our plight!
Seems as life-sustaining as respiration itself.
Let’s err on the side of it:
restoration, healing, restedness.
Inhalation. Exhalation. Aspiration! Exultation!
All together now!
June - Poem 2
For the Ones We Outgrew / Kristina Byas
I’m sure they’ll haunt us.
Not to be redeemed
or resurrected,
but
mourned,
honored
for having survived what shaped us.
Ode to DoorDash / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson
Making love is like making dinner.
I can’t stand the prep—
all the measuring and chopping,
getting my hands dirty.Maybe there’s kneading, maybe
while I preheat the stove someone
boils water for something.
The chicken, moist and pink,turns brown in the pan,
and the air is perfumed
with butter and spices.
Yes, there’s pleasure in that, butthere’s pleasure, too, in picking up
the phone and scrolling through pictures
of food already made, already plated.
Convenience, like a clean kitchen,is also kind of sexy. Something hot,
delicious and dropped at the door.
severance - a cento / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason
lines from Much Ado About Nothing and Star Wars: Clone Wars
I learned from watching you
now I have a future.
There’s nothing you have that I could want.
These are strange times
that only tells a lie and swears it. I cannot be a man
I learned from watching you.
Don’t insult me.
I love you with so much of my heart that
there’s nothing you have that I could want.
But I’m not that person anymore.
I want that back.
I learned from watching you.
I love you with so much of my heart that
once I was just like you.
There’s nothing you have that I could want.
You’re wrong. I was terrified.
It seems to be what you do best.
There’s nothing you have that I could want.
I learned from watching you.
SHOULDER / Shane Moran
striking a match across my front teeth to dance with you—
how many times did i hold you in the air?
our jelly fish tongues like cleaning a seashell—are most
useful for this. sleeping with you was
like a half-dollar rattling the floor til’ flat. hand-holding and
disappearing in the morning. you, with a life so like mine,
explain what i could be for you: not hot coals, not the cold smoke
rising off dry ice. — serious — we’re mute ash.
Conversation with Metaphysical Dog / Jingyu Li
MD: Was it difficult to birth me?
I: Not rushed landscapes nor a waiting stork, you came natural as pebbles.
MD: It was a coincidence then?
I: No I must have willed it, but then it was unexpected all the same.
MD: Sometimes I get hungry and it is tricky since we share a mouth and a bark.
I: My mouth is your mouth but your mouth is somewhere outside my mouth.
MD: I am chewing right now.
I: —And I am not.
MD: I’ve been chewing for quite some time, you must tell me to stop.
I: There.
MD: Thank you, my mouth has stopped moving.
I: I did not do a thing.
MD: Tell me then, when do we move together?
I: When you will it or I will it.
MD: So we’ll fly then. I say we’ll fly.
I: See, this is what I mean. You can will things in me I cannot do otherwise.
MD: You are optimistic.
I: I like to believe in better things than we have.
MD: We have this world and that other.
Load-bearing / Stefanie Zito
My bedroom chair bears witness
to the loads of life we’re living
the many layers of any given week.
Some gathered, washed, and waiting
Some tossed by the wayside of morning’s mayhem.
Find your sleeve or pantleg. Give a sturdy tug.
Be swift as a magician with his tablecloth trick
lest you risk the deluge of scads for the sorting.
A quixotic rendering of myself
has a real knack for tidy folded stacks.
But lately life is in a routine of hampering my capacity.
So I gather, wash, then jettison. Rinse and repeat.
As I iron out my course, the clothing can wait.
For now, I’ll push the limits of fiber sculpture.
Cumbersome. Monotonous. Impressive in scale.
My well-intended friends offer
instructions for care, beckoning
I lower the heat
opt for a gentle setting
a free and clear moment to pause.
But to find my seat I first have to fold.
June - Poem 1
Matriarch / Kristina Byas
We trampled on cracks
too many times to count.
No backs broken,
they had already become contortionists,
perfected their shucks,
taught us jives
so when we were next in line
only our spirits would fracture,
but no wince to betray the smiles.
Nothing & Everything / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson
the evening sky—pink and blue like Easter
—is a frosted cake
I want to drag my finger across it
and lick
it hangs
above my head like a thought
bubble
I did not come out
here for this
I wanted to walk clear my mind
wanted breath and sweat
muscles and sinew
to make sense of everything
but nothing
makes sense: why
one cloud looks like a mushroom
another a castle one cloud a stuffed
bear another a dagger
a turtle a hook a dinosaur
without legs
one’s a weeping
ballerina another a genie
coming
out of its bottle
before I grew up
I saw clouds
and thought
cotton candy
but now that I know
their names—these are
cumulonimbus
—all I think about is the coming storm
a month after she was born, I hold my niece for the first time / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason
for her mother, Johannah
Her weight floats lighter than I imagined,
but oh how heavy her curve
over my chest, tiny feet ready to kick
the ribs over my heart, weak from a car crash.
Gossamer as the hollow between my arms,
I refused to move in case she slipped, unanchored
between safety and the floor, in infinity’s terror
before magic’s made unreal and the floor is realized
in rubbery bones. There should be more time for hurt
to raise out of weeds and alight her body with fireflies.
My eyes flicked from the milia bourne down her nose
to my sister, hazel-loved eyes, milk-smeered, open,
and I Cassandra’d out so many futures: broken
bodies laid out from semi-trucks, glioblastomas, AR-15s,
and the open casket that’s my heart couldn’t close,
her chubby hand grabbed
between the ledge and the lip, welding open whatever
steeltrap car crash once passed for my heart.
okay, that’s enough
I passed the biggest soul
back to her mother.
Untitled / Jingyu Li
SHOULDER / Shane Moran
Scotts, skirl for my grandmother!
Hydrangeas, become a sea for my grandmother!
Organs, song for my grandmother!
Uniformed men, fire for my grandmother!
Love of God, lay upon my grandmother!
Doves, flutter for my grandmother!
Engines, roar for my grandmother!
Reader, know all the love I have for my grandmother!
A Stone for Holding / Stefanie Zito
She cast pebbles of wisdom
rippled over waters of my heart
rocking my world.
Hungry for depth, I collected them all.
Her insight, rich in minerals
nourished my capacity to grow
between rocks and hard places.
Her gems of discernment scattered
spontaneous as star showers.
I later shared the load of her sickness.
Shortly before death called my grounded friend
as its own buried treasure,
she gave me a stone for holding
fibers down in the dye pot.
Submerged in the tint of my own tears
I’m still gripping– absorbing the reality of loss.
You would think the absence
of such a hefty spirit would grow lighter.
Grief is an onerous boulder.
I’m crushed, drenched, holding still.
May - Poem 31
parnassus and its wild dogs, a cento / Sonya Wohletz
Lines taken from Meredith Ann Avera, Desirae Chacon, Heather Frankland, John Hanright III, Jillian Humphrey, Shane Moran, Christina Vaagenius, and Sonya Wohletz.
i dreamed the dogs again—
a fever dream
as big brown eyes, marked with stars.
follow them wet, alive—
like an old friend:
the fog-licked lake,
every patch of green with wildflowers—
one peak to the next:
purple, pink, light red.
music of life
plays in their ears.
weight of an unsaid stay
heavy on my tongue.
pale light whispers
into the doorway
holding the sleeping puppies
by the nape of the neck.
years folded over years,
the scent of holiness,
the wonder of
your singing,
calling—come to me, come
borrow my ears.
what should we name
such an act of return—
of calling
beauty to the ruin?
specter of responsibility—your face
wobbling on my shoulder.
snuggle, little beast.
i fed you all you wanted
and then you were gone.
i’m trying to remember—
since birth i have been
my own witness—
the body—a costume.
now that it’s gone
wild back here
you, dear friend, soul-pet
you must survive
on the edge of the realm
of life &
the eternal.
i wanted.
i wreaked of willingness.
anything to hold you again—
the animal in my body.
why insist
on the incarnation of a dream?
loyal and intentional of
devotions—the world
become the vicious creature—
seeks out a home.
i will always be your dog.
waiting
waiting
waiting
and your eyes
were all lamb-bright.
Empowering Voices / Heather Frankland
for Erin
How is it that the dandelion
grows in the cracks of concrete
its lion roar small, but mighty
its voice still practicing being a voice
but it grows despite concrete
and poor soil and neglect and disregard
its bright head blooms and thrives;
its voice carries on to other yards.
May - Poem 30
Salt Lines / M. Anne Avera
June glistened into focus
out of spring. It gave us
wet, thick air, like a blanket
over the damp earth.
I was six, stretching every
boundary over the ripe
green yard, every azalea
perfect for plucking.
I was the grade-school
dictator of the land, and
that day, my target sat
below a green canopy.
I pulled the elephant ear
back and took it within
my palm. The shock of yellow
writhed—a slug spreading
itself out onto me. I took
it inside on a styrofoam
plate to do my work.
All fun and games.
Tiny stars of Morton’s
sea salt speckled its back.
The thing could have cried
and I still would have done it.
It fully shriveled when
I heaped more on. I poked it
until it died, then dumped
the whole project down
into the garbage disposal.
To hurt with a laugh
is mankind’s gift to the young,
the fragile, the effervescent.
I already had the vein of cruelty
(passed down from my kin)
laced into my being,
flowing down my throat.
Under this Ol’ Brim / Desirae Chacon
where every storm passes over this
brim
I have conquered
where every lie that tried to break me down
i rode straight through it
through every tear
that fell from the heavens
and every lightening
strike of stricken heart break
i have overcome
in every waiting season
for reunion
i saddled
for the return
through every snowfall & spring rain
i bridled
to continue on
because in the end
of the trail
i rode
Victoriously
on
Blackberries in the Ditch / Heather Frankland
Blackberries in the ditch
ripe, sweet blackberries
crowded in the ditch
sharing space with poison ivy
empty beer cans and yellow jackets
cigarette butts with lipstick stains.
Did the city spray already?
Can we still eat these
blackberries in the ditch?
I hold several in my hand
roll them around my destiny lines
they leave their impact—
so tender their skins,
surely, I can pop them in my mouth,
Did the city spray already?
Did I bush past poison ivy?
My ankle is starting to itch,
but it all seems worth it
for blackberries in the ditch.
We trick ourselves into believing
that the city didn’t spray
that we are no longer allergic
to poison ivy and perhaps—
it isn’t really poison ivy—
it’s Virigina Creeper, surely,
it’s some kid’s science project
these blackberries would make
a nice breakfast topping
we can bring them back for the others
if only they make it to breakfast,
instead we are eating
and pretending we aren’t eating
these delicious, plump
blackberries in the ditch.
Can I click my heels
and call home back to me,
summer days stained
with sweet nostalgia
at least for one last bite
of these dirty beauties
the earned taste
my suffering ankles
the poison ivy
for blackberries in the ditch.
Can you imagine us leaving
these blackberries
to be enjoyed
by someone else’s mouth?
Or worse yet—
to shine and tempt and die
because the city may
have sprayed this ditch?
Like ruby red slippers
they sparkle; they glow
but when I click them together
will they take me back home?
Love Song for Anon / John Hanright
I don’t even know your name;
On my breath are your lips, smoky;
Yet I want you all the same…
You grow on me, so I can’t be blamed
For what I want to do to your body;
And I don’t even know your name
Your hair I’ll grasp, and exclaim
Something stupid like “baby”
Yet I still want you all the same…
My insatiable appetite you’ll tame,
My caged heart you’ll free;
Yet I don’t even know your name…
You have me coming for more, maimed
By Eros’s arrow, yet I can see
I really do want you all the same…
But I suppose that’s the name of the game,
To experience so much so easily;
And though I don’t even know your name,
I really do want you all the same…
silence / Jillian Humphrey
A spoon set down without care.
A ball bouncing
against the side of the garage.
Every door opening and closing
and opening — someone trying
to find me with a complaint
or request. A shout that means nothing
wakes up the dog.
The TV, volume 25.
YouTube, no headphones.
Someone making popcorn.
A timer.
The blender.
A fight — who needs
the bathroom the most
and for how long.
Loud music.
Dropped keys.
Ice cubes.
The fridge left open.
A cupboard slammed.
I buy myself
a small AM/FM radio
for listening
to summer baseball
outside. I cannot bring myself
to turn it on. I look at it and think
that would be nice,
but first I’d have to move out.
Some day one of us will.
When I go to turn the dial,
will I be able to bear it?
Chest / Shane Moran
Now, we won’t count the years since we graduated
only say it has been over five, or a decade—
or, if we are lucky, more than twenty.
Williamsburg is not the same, though it is still
my preferred diorama of that American myth
that once tasted like caramel-covered Virginia
peanuts in the fall. Last night, Honeycutt told me
what he appreciates about Europeans is that they know
how to enjoy tobacco products. He told me there were days
namely the 70s, where if you were a good-looking white guy
you could get any job—off that alone. He was a typist
for Ginsberg, ‘cause he was handsome and could type.
He said this after reading a poem criticizing
the old man who wants us to go back to that time,
where being a man meant something, meant being capable,
and earning was something that came after
taking a chance. This is also the thinking of Napoleon
Hill. Have an idea and make it happen—get off
your lily-white ass. I never sat for too long
on my young black ass. Never knew an opportunity,\
I wouldn’t call, exploitative. Never knew I was handsome
until I became grown, until my mother
stopped calling me sheep’s ass, once I learned to keep
my hair cut and walk straight up.
This is the thing about Williamsburg—
that I crave. Memory of how we used to be hopeful,
us men—memory of how we had something to give,
even if we hadn’t yet earned it. America is the love
child of five dozen cute young men in small clothes—
who said they'd earn it, once they got the chance
who could make a chance out of dust,
who were not watched on hidden cameras,
whose debts did not follow them to the moon.
This morning, one of my old deans called and asked me why
I think the men of my class are having such a hard time—
we’re still figuring out what there’s left to build, I said
—and what’s left to build it out of.
Upon Hearing The News Of The New Garden Wing For Intensive Care Patients / Christina Vagenius
I hold your hand and whisper see —
the body knows
the difference between birdsong and beeps,
joy as it climbs the eyelid, peers over the edge.
Saddled with wind whipped hair,
says, We’re here. Hands lifted, sleds down
slip and slide cheeks —
the body knows
the difference between a chair and a bench,
planted under the bosom of a River. Feral birch skin
peeling away the apparent. Names carved lightly beneath legs.
A bouquet of hands, variety tender. Plumber, Painter, Bread Maker
Stems pulled tight, together. —
The body knows
the difference between a breath and an incubator.
The strum of a lung filled with banter and belief. Helium sighs
lifting the whole of a heart, strings untangled. Go slow. A plea,
to the sky herself Do we have to go?
Can't we stay just a little bit longer.
Kitezh #3 / Sonya Wohletz
After Anna Akhmatova and Werner Herzog
1.
When you arrive at the miraculous city of Kitezh, you can gain insight into the nature of your soul. This city once stood on the banks of Lake Svetloyar. That was centuries ago. When the envoys of the combatant appeared, the residents implored God for protection. He answered, consigning the city to the bottom of the waters where they repose in splendor. The people believe this city really existed. You may catch a glimpse of the city in winter perhaps, or it may rather be at night in late spring. It may be this very night. May twenty-ninth, year two thousand and twenty-six. It may be that it happens as you write the words of your own pilgrimage. You may hear the voices of martyred children singing within walls of ice. Its apples may split and reveal the face of a saint. And you may see angels walking; they may pause from time to time and appear to exchange between themselves prayers of the Old Believers. You must follow them until you cannot follow any further. You may collapse in ecstasy like a tattered banner. These sorts of things are expected. Your limbs will certainly transform into long, thin candles. Your mouth becomes ripe with the pitch of the endless birch forest. Mosquitos begin to speak to you in a new language. You must remember their words; these are the words of the angel Gabriel, though they may not be meant for you. You may see a tree stump, or a rock, and make your prayers as to a blessed shrine. You will return here, from time to time; I predict that one time (one time) will not be enough for you. And the mourners will follow you, and they will not take you by the hand even as you ask them for comfort, nor will they offer you clothing when they find you in your hospital gown, unwashed and shriveled with confusion. But the innocent monk—he may offer you some bread and pray for your soul. And you will eat this bread and remember again the face of your mother as a child. You see: the soul is forever striving to behold the sunken city of Kitezh.
2.
take example the city of kitezh the city consigned
to the depths of fathomless lake
i am seeking a sunken vision warm houses in red clay
the guttered orchard trench of my dreams
through pillars of smoke forever striving
to behold sunken
city of kitezh city the envoi batu khan or was it you
implore envoi to the fathomless lake svetloyar
choirs chase me like insects
godcrawl the lake blood and ice of innocent things
perhaps bowing to shrubs
slither across the ice
the future sunken fortune of faith
battered in pure sound
and catch a glimpse pilgrims slipped in strange and fragrance
of pitch as an old woman tattered knees
a banner of ecstasy forevermore
crawling crawling crawling in blessing
May - Poem 29
Chueh-Chu 001 / M. Anne Avera
I remember your house in November rain,
how we ducked our heads through the kitchen door.
We curled on your bedspread, warmth seeking warmth,
my wool-socked feet brushing the hardwood floor.
You had spent hours sifting through your stash--
your collection of box-tops, bread ties, and trash galore--
for something exciting, something that glowed,
a gift for me, though I always wanted more.
Societal Degradation / Desirae Chacon
butterfly drifts by
sunshine bathed upon her back
wings soaked in sunlight
everything in this life
was so generously given to us so freely
until greed of society came along
all the resources supplied at no charge
beautiful fruit bearing trees, meat & wild berries
wind, air, water & gold
we could all have gold inlaid into our properties if we wanted to
we could all wear pearls and the highest fashion
no wallet or wealth
status or networking
to utilize
no thousands of dollars
to learn knowledge that is free all around us
to earn a document
for “better opportunities”
in exchange for years of our lives
and the cost consuming repayment that can span decades
raising children to begin their lives with student loans that cost as much as some homes
greed
nothing needs to cost anything
no homes in ideal locations
taking free coastlines and convenient locations
and reserving them for the rich
the rich told not to lend out hands
when no man really needs any money
and yet the money man created
demands demands demands
working to earn
what society calls success or survival
luxury handbags, sports cars & mansions
making rent, needing food, or fuel for at least a tank of gas
looked down upon because you left the old country for a “better life”
when this life is too fast paced and the foundation is all material that wont last
yet money demanded time and hard-work to build it
To Uncle Larry Who Liked to Sing / Heather Frankland
Don’t ever forget
Uncle Larry was a kind man
who liked to sing—jokingly serenade
his nieces and nephews, even
when off-key. Even if he
had only a few deep scratchy notes
that could masquerade as Sinatra,
he’d look at you in the eyes
and sing with humor and sincerity.
Don’t ever forget
Uncle Larry was a generous man
who cared to find out what you cared about
and then, would encourage you.
For me, it was poetry—
he and I both wrote, and it was a bridge
between us, allowing for easy conversation
at crowded family dinners.
Don’t ever forget
Uncle Larry was a matchmaker—
some of the matches, he felt proud of,
others, he regretted the match.
He is the reason my parents met—
matching his sister with his college friend.
Dad remembers Uncle Larry and Mom
singing and skipping together
around the college. I like to imagine it—
the two who could be silly with each other
and shared a love for Agatha Christie mysteries.
Don’t ever forget
the stories we learned after Uncle Larry
passed away, the ways he tried to be a peacemaker
in the family—staying in touch with everyone,
the stories about him finding ways
to give people a kind word when they needed it
or slip them a twenty when he knew times were tough.
Dad says he misses his friend.
Mom wishes she could call him.
And me, well, I am writing this poem to him,
someone I knew so long,
but still remains a mystery—
I gather the details I remember,
scraps of stories—weave them together
and hope this is a poem
that he would’ve liked.
Waiting for a Train / John Hanright
IV.
To arrive, to reach the end
Stop – breathe –
Clammy hands, tapping foot
Screeching brakes
Clanging bells
Now’s the time to go
Forward, momentum
In the heart, muzzled mind
One foot in front
Of the other, beside me
Looking at the train –
Not paying any mind
To the man, beside them
As I step from the platform
Release overwhelms me
Renewed freedom
Fully embodied will
I stand waiting
Resolute, ready to face
My beginning and my end
Pull / Jillian Humphrey
I am drawn cockeyed
by the rotations
beneath me
which pull me to center
while spinning me round
so that as I stay a straight
course I go left
and outside. The real force
is only one of many
felt forces.
Bathwater circling
the drain believes
itself a record
not a waterfall yet
plummets. A mortal coil
a labyrinth a conch a hurricane a milky
way may all be traveling
due north and still
they turn. A physical force
proportionate to the size of the disco
ball compels me to boogie
then sends me back
to flower the walls.
I circle the dance floor
not knowing what comes next.
Shoulder / Shane Moran
Sex is all we got and the only time you
Hold nothing against me but your body.
Only you know how easily I fold
Unto you—mama or baby—I hate your tears.
Let me be enough for you and please
Don’t make a fool of me,
Especially not in this bar, where everyone’s got a fresh cut but me.
Right now, I’d love a touch on the cheek, a tug on my beard.
Kitchen Drawer / Christina Vagenius
On Blanche days, I swept the porch with sunned feathers,
searched the cracked wall for pill bugs, rolled them home
with want. Envied their nose to tail secrets, bent around what
disappears. I waited on the turn of Dad’s wheels, feet alight
in gypsum and day old rain, a mold for the castle’s shadow,
allegiance to a festooned gutter leaking life over borrowed toes.
And the blistered pouch of the daylily’s mouth waiting to be popped.
Power fused between pinch, I follow. The tip-toed wet step cement
mementos, the purred leisure left to trace. My finger, an accomplice to her
treason. The red, swelled slammed door. A thrown kitchen drawer, hinged jaws
don’t talk. But our eyes, wet with the last reach of mulberry — purple pavement
thick with her blood I have grown here too. The day’s last sigh. Blanche and her
framed eyes, knees pressed into mine. A rudder waved, cheeks finding the milky
seat of her shoulder. Says Tell me, again. How we’ll never grow older.
Cantilever / Sonya Wohletz
For Maestro Frederico Vigil
at the school on canyon road ms. baca said you have talent
soon dragons skimming your fingers, crushing feathers in cochineal
and ants swarm starlight to sow the early corn fields
modotti behind her lens. trotsky—rivera—kahlo damp and sand
you said painting fresco is like a dance—the wall is your lady
at la entrega de los novios: pigments become her skin your history
si diosito quiere and ave maría
cupped in supple
wine
May - Poem 28
my preferred confession booth is the discount bread aisle at the piggly wiggly / M. Anne Avera
got the time?
you know, all this shit used to be so much cheaper.
when i was your age, i could live off
ten dollars maybe twealve dollars a week—
not shittin’ you.
pardon my french.
course, men loved that like you wouldn’t believe.
that was before my bypass and my heart still pumped blood good,
despite all the stuff we was putting up our noses, not knowing better.
so it was no big surprise when i’d go downtown
to pool-shark the bar guys, get me some grocery money
and ‘em got a little handy a few of the times, lingerin’
when they’re lining up my shot you know, i knew
it wasn’t a banana in their pocket there but let me just say—
i’m not afraid to get down and clown, never ever was i afraid,
spite the fact my daddy (godresthissoul) brought me up in the big C church.
oh, my other folks hated that on account of them being baptist
through and through.
be a dear and hand me that there sunbeam,
will you?
say.
anyone ever tell you you got a face like a catholic priest?
you prolly keep lotsa secrets.
Love’s Lighthouse / Desirae Chacon
Sometimes Love
is like a lighthouse
in this ever growing cold-world
an oscillating light
shining wherever
its directed
others run to it
the catch the showing of radiating warmth
its foundation is a stage manager
acting alone
in an one man play
for an audience of all
Shakespearean in manner
classic, timeless
with a reoccurring crowd
a light we can all carry
within
over crashing seas
dark oceans
of icy glacial waves
standing over
on inlets & coves
sweeping over life
bringing a haven of radiance
a brilliance of love
Dear Elysia—We Who Own Pets All Have Tales / Heather Frankland
Home after breaking an ankle,
laying on the secondhand futon,
its wire frame and thin mattress,
every turn, an ache, watching DVDs
brought by friends and waiting for visits
although I didn’t have much to say,
other than, I hurt, and, This wasn’t
the way I wanted to leave Las Cruces,
trying to pack with a broken ankle
nearly impossible, and some friends disappeared
when I was no longer self-sufficient—
terrified of curbs with my crutches,
worried about slipping in the shower
unable to balance enough to wash my hair,
my two cats stopped bickering,
stayed close to me. My favorite one
followed me everywhere, cried
at the bathroom door to be let in,
slept with me or near me
every day and night for months.
This favorite cat, Max, a tiny tabby
always would hang from my doorknob,
try to open the door when I
was on the other side. He would greet
me every day that I came home
for over 12 years. Even when his tumor
grew big enough that he couldn’t run
but walked heavily with measured step,
low to the ground, his tail down,
he’d greet me—not for food, but for a pet.
He liked being held like a baby.
When bored, he would push things off edges:
figurines, photos, mugs.
I learned not to put water glasses
on my night stand—he would shove
his tiny head in them to drink
or push them off to break them.
I called him a little bastard and complained,
but I liked even his little bastard-moments.
Max has been gone for almost eight years,
almost as long as I had him;
I try to remember these little moments,
list them, tell stories, and it hurts
less than it once did. So, I understand
you, dear friend, those soul-pets
take a piece of us when they go,
a kind of knowing that they had;
we read them, and they read us.
When pets cross that rainbow bridge,
when you are told that your grief isn’t your grief
when your everyday changes, and you keep
on looking for them to come through the door,
curl on the bed, jump on your feet,
wait patiently or impatiently at the door
to take you for a walk, to take you out
of worries and clouded thoughts
and notice squirrels, rabbits, new plants
all these smells that sing in the rain,
it is an absence that can’t be expressed easily,
a loss we are told to just get over,
rather than recognize the gift we had—
these soul-pets, their life a flicker,
it may have been brief, but still was bright.
Lunar Lunes / John Hanright
Grazing the sky
Slipping Earth’s surly bonds
To meet her
Distance of thousands
A constant companion and friend
Never alone here
Light of night
Guide us toward your vales
Familiar and trodden
Vastness of space
Not empty but completely full
Quintessence of dust
Gazing out windows
Images of your dark side
Blue marble spinning
Take our hands
Greeting humanity’s best friend again
Footprints perfectly preserved
The SAVE Act / Jillian Humphrey
We want to live in a decent country, so in order to vote you’ll need to show
1) proof that at least once in the last ten years you’ve cleaned up someone else’s vomit, preferably a small child’s at 3 am;
OR
2) an official transcript of a conversation held within the last twelve months in which you acknowledged you were wrong and asked for forgiveness; said transcript must be signed and dated by the offended party.
Furthermore, any person who wishes to run for office must meet BOTH of the above requirements in addition to providing
3) a notarized copy of a book report you wrote about a novel you read within the last six months;
4) a certificate of completion for an improv comedy class, accompanied by the teacher’s letter of recommendation; and
5) evidence of a distaste for war.
SHOULDER (5) / Shane Moran
—a Cento (1)
Still sleeping at our feet Time will break what doesn’t bend—
How perfectly each surface was made All so we could call ourselves safe.
Oh body of my woman,
Until the drawing is complete—
Let the record show I want this
Descending toward devotion,
Even down to the youthful screams of play
Round the house I mean to make it The lamp of your arms.
(1) line S from “Despite My Efforts Even My Prayers Have Turned into Threats” by Kaveh Akbar
line H from “The Card Tables” by Jericho Brown
line O from “White thighs, hillocks of whiteness” by Pablo Neruda
line U from “How to Draw a Perfect Circle” by Terrance Hayes
line L from “Cum Sonnet with Friendship” by Gray Davidson Carroll
Line E from “The Flash Reverses Time” by A. Van Jordan
Line R from “from Book of Hours” by Kevin Young
Waiting On Titan's Arrival / Christina Vagenius
The flooring installers are late. Missed the street, the door. The plush weave still waiting
on something hard. Maybe maple, laminate luster. A needled blade of irritation slipped
between the ship’s sails. Shoulders widened at the gate. Who’s there? I miss smoking. The
cigarette hanging from my hand, catching trouble in shades of red, blue, gray stubble. A
collective cloud of consciousness hung between balconies, a soldered eye staring back at
me, taunting the heat. Test me, she says. And means it, always grateful for the fresh start.
The tip to tip touch of camaraderie, breath sunk in chimney’s ash. Legs tangled together,
knotted knees, I’m here for you. A beard of fog buries the frustration. Splintered gorge be-
tween buildings. Resignation stoops. A dumpster vomits gold. Shillings for the fool still
waiting on Titan’s arrival. His promise of rivers and lakes, somehow inhabitable. And us,
all together. Breathing in the same empty air. Eyes closed to where ever we are supposed
to be.
Aripiprazole 1 / Sonya Wohletz
Brain stemming along the edge of Friday night and
ability slips through the cortices. Cue the graveyard, its brackish—
cue the water from the tap that brines flesh on contact.
Purgatory on the kitchen floor while Bacchus
sublimates in Das Kapital. I have a wig. I have two smashed phones. And
I see all that is hidden in this city. I remember it well.
Jackson Ave.: footsteps in the apartment overhead
corporating a terrible future. Its come down: scent of piss and garbage.
Trick question: three people in disagreement? Not a duel.
Jazz trio—a love triangle—Fleetwood Mac c. 1977.
Music splinters in broken glass. Spores a trail to the naked door,
the bottom of the stairs—blades flickering in dumpsters.
The railroad tracks follow. Neighbor girl holding her hands out, crying.
Errant pills wander the street barefoot. You are one of them.
The police take leisure in this—they are also your neighbors in disguise.
Have no interest in domestic. Wicked like distant.
Symbols engraved on easter eggs and you laughing about it.
Carbon dioxide plummets us all towards blue
screen. You become my father. I meditate on Planet Jupiter,
hum irrational numbers to the tune of weevils. Go your own way
while the third eye twists in pain—its blown fuse.
Then morning for the tenth time today and staggering, nauseous.
Stevie Nicks ascends in the crescive view—soul-stained,
careening carousel—grasping at whatever claims to love her most.
May - Poem 27
Body Horror 6a and 6b / M. Anne Avera
6a.
My body is symmetrical, classically proportioned, and even in its curves.
My face is of classical beauty, detailed and intricate as if carved from marble.
My stomach is the color of cream, smooth and pale beneath my healthy breasts.
My body is machine, designed to be pleasing.
6b.
My body dominates space with its bulges of fat, sloping bones, and loose skin.
My face is an angry, moist map of negative space. My teeth sit yellow inside.
My stomach protrudes underneath my ribcage, the pallid skin covering a mat of bones.
My body is animal, milk-fed and warm blooded.
Every Smile / Desirae Chacon
i wouldnt trade any smile
for the riches of the world
no pearl or precious gem
can replace
the alive electric warmth
of one another’s soul
looking back at you
in bright brilliant love
who can replace the beauty
of a human soul
the preconfigured radiance
of another living being
the treasure that is
how precious is that
we are surrounded by
living treasures
life breathed into diamonds
just look around
and you’ll see
in every smile
of a good hearted person
are the treasures of the world
Isaiah is Curious About Forest Animals / Heather Frankland
It depends on which forest, doesn’t it?
In the Midwest, a squirrel is common;
I used to count them when my dad and I
went on walks or bike rides—
there were gray ones, black ones, red ones,
and in rare cases—
those white ones with the red eyes,
all were common, but those, those—
you felt lucky to see
like watching a falling star
or finding a patch of green clover
on the edge where a field
becomes a woods, a woods
that once was a forest.
It is said that when Indiana
had its big forests, trees with trunks
so big that you could break a saw,
a squirrel could climb up one tree
and you wouldn’t see it step down
until it was in Illinois or Ohio.
Imagine that—those adventurous squirrels,
common, yes, but still adventurous,
just climbing from tree to tree,
avoiding the ground as if the ground
was lava or another threat
more threatening than jumping
from branch to endless branch.
Or it would be the forest in New Mexico,
the huge forest that is allowed to still be
a huge forest—its juniper trees
invading nostrils, causing us all to sneeze.
In a forest this huge, you can see
black bears and cougars and bob cats
and mule deer and snakes and lizards.
You can watch the javalina, seemingly innocent,
just wandering around with their herd,
playing with flowers, shuffling dirt,
hanging out with the family unit,
and in an instant, they turn wild and scary
like the boars, the ones kings once hunted in Europe.
You don’t want to be near a javalina then;
you would no longer call them ugly-cute.
You can see coyote pups playing in the forest—
just don’t get too close;
everything feels on edge in a forest
like this; it feels wild.
Still, we are saved the constant ticks
that drop from tall trees.
Maybe the animals large enough
to be seen as a threat are really safe,
and those ticks sneak on you,
crawl and bite and take—
maybe they are the dangerous ones?
Even the common squirrels can seem
dangerous if they are hungry enough
to forget their wildness. What is it
to feel wild? If we were to hang out
in forests more often, leaving our smart phones
at home, and be there with all these animals,
would we then become forest animals?
Could we be defined as such?
On a Headstone / John Hanright
“Good way of putting it” needs to be somewhere in my epitaph.
The last little vanity, in full relief; the dead line each trodden path,
full of mourners heavy with grief; the graves are all totally devoid
of what is most important to life – what distracts the calling void,
what keeps off the chill of strife – that is to say, a name. Whose
last name is this upon the grave? Whose names do all of us lose
each fleeting moment that waves farewell to the terminal letter?
Why do we believe that etching into marble will make us better
able to cope with the prophecy scrawled for all from the beginning?
Oh: An Abecedarian Cento / Jillian Humphrey
And I understood that if I kept it all up no one would know me, Marie Howe
but I knew nothing else — Bonnie Thurston
Carried through town the ache of not writing, not calling. Christa Wells
Distant traffic muted. Birds silent. Luci Shaw
Even the rain knows only one shape. Maggie Smith
Forgive me, Mary Oliver
God overhead, I conjure a stubborn faith in rotting. Jane Hirshfield
Here, on the trail, the air barely lifts a leaf. Luci Shaw
It’s the ancient road the soul knows. Joy Harjo
Just so, she keeps the company of everything: Leah Naomi Green
kisses a man she does not want to kiss Erica Jong
like you would care for a bird or a human heart, Jennifer Michael Hecht
makeshift shrine. Can you hear me? I want — Chelsea Dingman
Nobody knows the next word, Leah Naomi Green
only the slow children out on the lawns, marking off paths between fireflies,
making soft little sounds with their mouths, ohs. Cecelia Woloch
Purple bells of delphinium in a window box — their stained light Dorianne Laux
quickens inside me, Leah Naomi Green
rips open the water bed, eats the incense, and drinks the perfume. Joanne Kyger
Something looks back from the trees, and knows me for who I am: Jane Hirshfield
the tiny life of the single pine needle, which nevertheless shines Mary Oliver
under the broad shadows of the maple trees. Now, everywhere I am talked to by silence. Louise Glück
Voices float into our bedroom, lunar and fragmented. Lisel Mueller
We want the spring to come and the winter to pass. Marie Howe
Expectant, mouth ready, Debra Spencer
you’ve left me with the things you couldn’t take or bear to give away. Wendy Cope
The leaves have already fallen, and a gray sky lowers the horizon. Barbara Crooker
Maranatha XI / Shane Moran
Alight! You are here.
An auspicious fortune
is attached to words:
the lions, the elephants,
the lamb, the dove,
the cow, and the peacock,
the horse and the good eagle.
Illusion disconnect you
from the touch
of God, you—
higher-self—wanderer,
we have stepped from the walk
of self-destruction to the feet
of Christ or Buddah or Vishnu
or Lakshmi—Allah—whomever
you are naming to guide you,
and we have heard it—it is You,
but I have been asked to warn,
that it matter not how much Truth,
or how much I share of Truth,
for no matter how much the
Lord or the Sun or a lampost
or the eyes of child shine to illuminate
the world and all that is you, all that is,
one cannot know wisdom, nor peace,
nor love, nor freedom, nor unity,
nor simplicity—and therefore life—
if a life is not the opening of the heart
like a morning lotus—
granting a throne to Your Spirit.
Bad Day, Go Bag / Christina Vagenius
A crisp line of optimistic euphemisms
pulled through an open window —
words shaken from the rain. Salt
in the wound, born off a Brittany coast,
thigh high lavender waders for when the water
rises. A pair of sharpened shears caught in a tailspin,
St. Peter’s bell rung over a rocky shore, a tidepool
of sunflower sea stars, a bouquet for closed eyes.
Lost tooth lottery tickets, rusted penny pick-me-ups,
the Blue Jay’s last of the season shed feather. Open
palm, oak leaf shadows, hollow bone bite marks,
clean as a whistle. The broken bit of Nag Champa,
a silent retreat. Stopping time.
Mend / Sonya Wohletz
The years have made a pilgrim of these hands
seeking their repose, their quiet labor.
Open them for me and observe: their foliate
fronds, their tired, patient whirring. Their soft stigma.
The fingernails grown long, an impediment
to mundane reckoning, glinting edges blazed in halogen.
Perhaps they crave a deeper abstraction;
a vocation to mend past wrongs.
Though they already bury
themselves elbow-deep in PVC piping—
pulling out clots of hair and fungus,
scrubbing sherds the length of a bad morning.
Picking away at the dermis of deception. It pools
itself a new skin, and demands more of the same—
a dispensation to rupture futile membranes.
How can I weave these hands when I am left
here holding the cloak of my own battered body—
a wound sculptured of storms?
In my dreams my mother staggers towards
me with her tortoiseshell hands as if she can
receive something solid and bring it back to life.
As if we are not both frozen in the eye
of a dying star as inert gestures—
a letting go that never happens.
These hands are for the memories
of the dead who, in their vulnerability and innocence,
demand so much care.
These hands are for the babies. For their soft, warm
skin, their fever-damp hair, the curve of their backs.
These hands are here to make a world where
they can know safety as a gift of their own hands.
May - Poem 26
Haikus for Best Friend / M. Anne Avera
Stub tail, marbled coat.
How are you actually real?
Marvelous, your genes.
Snout pokes up, then eyes.
Nothing on countertop safe.
Sharp eyes, small bandit.
My dog's teeth snap shut,
chasing her tale late at night.
One day, she'll catch up.
She takes time to wake,
though I like to sleep in, too.
Snuggle, little beast.
A Rainbow Ahead / Desirae Chacon
beyond all the smoke
beyond all the clouds
there’s a little shine waiting
beyond the doubt
they call it red
they call it violet
a rainbow is waiting
beyond all the noise
where it is peaceful
where it is quiet
where you can hear
the words we speak
& feel each other’s
heart’s beat
where you can feel the sunlight
for tomorrow
where all gone
is every pain
every sorrow
and thats the rainbow
waiting up upon the road
a handful of light
of seven colours
to carry with you
wherever you roam
A Good Monsoon / Heather Frankland
We have had the drought so long
all of us turn poetic
at the memory of the monsoon
and the hope that each hint is its return.
Skin dryer, even our scattered thoughts
have no soil to grow
they scrape against our surface,
their roots shallow.
How we look longingly out the windows
smelling the air, measuring moisture.
Oh, to have the rain again, and stay inside
or dance outside or both; we could do both.
We want to watch the birds
call the rain closer,
the branches of our squat tree sway
as if it were a sapling bending with the wind.
Even the black bear
on its way to town
to seek out any water
a small fountain, a leaking hose, a bucket,
that black bear turns,
heads back to the Gila
has no need to grieve the loss of water
has no need to walk uncomfortable roads.
This could be the summer of a good monsoon
of fruitful gardens and few forest fires
when our poetic verses feel fulfilled
our hardened selves become our joyful selves once more.
Deja Vu / John Hanright
Poems (really any art in the world)
Grow legs and walk into the foggy Past to understand the Present
while gazing into the mirror of the Future
Memories of life –
Slip in and out of consciousness or fly away toward the Past, which is where all
our memories go to retire (and then die)
The flowers in the gardens of our imagination
Bloom in the springtime, get summer heatstroke, and
blow through the autumn air into winter’s tantrums
Lenses – for shortsightedness, of course –
Produce in the retinas reflections of the world of the final
Present’s evening – closing lids fall into the Past’s dreary
night and the Future’s blinding dawn
untitled / Jillian Humphrey
there’s a dog in the house
and a woman who tells the dog no
though he whimpers at the door
runs in circles and destroys the furniture
she won’t let him out
there’s a tornado outside
and she’s keeping him safe
she’s afraid and she’s keeping him
safe until the tornado
gets to the house
ACE OF WANDS / Shane Moran
Benicio casts a spell on his sister,
and she walks as if her galoshes
were dipped in molasses until his wand
taps her shoulder and she begins
counting. He hides behind the green,
humming box, as the sun shines
through the wet trees and passing
storm clouds and onto his soaked head.
Malia finds Beni and he is on the run
until she points and shouts, Expeliarmus!—
he drops his wand and begins
counting. She hides behind a sugarberry
tree, and Beni takes too long to find her,
so she comes flying from the woods. He chases
her, casts spells that don’t count since
his wand is lost in the mud.
When Choosing A Paint Color For Our New Home / Christina Vagenius
I consider Onyx, Iron Ore, Nightfall. Think about
the day at the museum. Chagall’s stained glass windows.
It was winter. Lion’s breath bare beneath snow. We’d had
a fight, the stinger still staged beneath skin, stirring red
high-rises from the wound. An icicle hung from the bend
of my ear, steps to the final stab. The boys stood against
his colors. In flavors, small, medium, large. And I wondered
if they could hear him. Chagall and his burnished brush
whispering between the black lines, shrugging some falsetto
about cracks and color and the bend of light —and isn't all
so beautiful
how the dark turns the stone soft, the metal muted
if you turn your head, look over shoulder, hold midnight’s
empty hand. Let the sword fall from its ladder.
Hidden Message / Sonya Wohletz
When I gazed out across the horizon,
there I saw it: the large moon,
unironic with an “M” emblazoned across its face.
I took “M” to stand for “moon”—a most obvious interpretation—
but upon reflection perhaps the message was meant more like:
“M” for “martyr for midnight” or “M” for “mourning,”
or better yet: “M” for “mourning still with good mascara on.”
Everyone here presses me for a password. I can’t
give them what they want, so I deliver the article instead:
an a for an, etc. and am consequently
rebuked by the experts.
I need a break. Day or night.
I need to brush my teeth
and move the fuck out of this place.
No one will miss me.
but I need snow, mountains, some place
to lose myself in mystic wandering. I need
that moonlight to drip down
my forehead like clumps of pink fruit.
Oh, now I see it. Maybe “M” stands for
“Make Me”, or a “W” inverted, as in “Whatever, Mom,”
or better yet—
“Mora, New Mexico” or “Montana.”
Just like the song—
Goin to Montana soon,
Gonna be a dental floss tycoon.
May - Poem 25
Body Horror 5 / M. Anne Avera
My eyes perceive more than their size
can contain. They are remnants of single
cells, their animal glow in the camera flash.
My mouth is a cave of form. I force
the human syllables out and suck tastes,
textures in. Bestial, my saliva’s drip.
Over Again / Desirae Chacon
Red roses turned black
on the window
became a template for my
life
of the sort
a fresh hopeful perspective of love
twisted by pain & thorns
of loss, torment and apathy
blackened by withering
days
of falling throughs, if only & almost ifs
whatever
i say know
feeling the deep pain inside
saying this is not you
so i try to keep head
above
waves of despair & hurt
try to keep my eyes upon beautiful skies
because destiny says that
someday you’ll be waiting
upon the sands
standing on the golden shore
I Talk to Jeanine About Indiana / Heather Frankland
If one poem were to contain Indiana,
it would have to have sweet corn in it,
the corn purchased on the roadside
later boiled and eaten with melted butter and salt
meanwhile a crow, in the background, says
there is more than corn in Indiana.
It would have fireflies
in the evening—sprinkled inside,
the humidity that felt like a wall,
and cicadas singing in the distance.
It would have the bright red cardinal
looking unusually bright on gray mornings
and clover necklaces and trees you planted
when you were young.
It would have the sound of trains
always going elsewhere,
and the breeze through the window,
and the pet cemetery in the backyard.
It’d have the screech owls
by the green clothesline—
and the one milkweed growing
big enough to attract the butterflies,
those beautiful butterflies
who wear their big hearts
on their colorful wings.
What is “Political Violence”? / John Hanright
CW: references to policing, racism, supremacy, and other types of violence/oppression
Othering results in
Punishment, that originates with
Policing and law enforcement – such as
Racism in rent and
Exclusion (from shared spaces, the workforce, etc.) – which itself comes from
Supremacist thinking, producing the delusional idea that
States have a monopoly on force – historically used against
Indigenous, Black, and non-white people, often manifested through
Ostracism and
Nationalism (specifically the white variety)...
Institutions like bail, for-profit prisons, and the military-industrial complex are examples of
Systemic injustice – and that can often look like…
Payday loan sharks,
Outsourcing jobs to totalitarian or colonized states,
Late fees and credit card fines,
Infractions (ex: speeding tickets, loitering, jaywalking, etc.),
Torture (ex: at the military prison in Guantanamo Bay),
Intelligence agency operations,
Colonial caste systems,
Apartheid laws (ex: in South Africa and Gaza/Occupied Territories),
Legal codification of racism, sexism, ableism, transphobia, etc. – all of which
Validates itself in the media and culture,
Insulates itself from responsibility,
Officializes oppression and gives it faces,
Lends to itself justification in place of justice,
Exculpates persecutors and gangs of all varieties,
Nationalizes enforcement and punishment
Capitalizes on climate destruction, which left unchecked has the power to
End all life on Earth – this is why oppression is political violence.
I don’t leave what’s left me / Jillian Humphrey
I drag my dead sister to the park
because I want to swing. I hold her
heavy in my lap
and turn my face.
It’s hard to go
down the slide —
first the ladder;
then her body yanking me
toward a long drop
over the metal edge.
And on the merry-go-round
she’s pulled, purple, through the gravel
while I spin and spin,
but she can’t feel anything. I can
and I want to keep moving. If I stop
to snip the bit of skin
that conjoins us and so free
myself, what remains –
not anything
worth saving,
just a bloody mess
for me to clean up alone,
sisterless.
SANTA CLÓ EN PLAYA PEÑA / Shane Moran
Santa is in sunglasses sitting on a beach chair, drinking
a Long Island Iced Tea made with cherry coke,
out at the very top of high tide with his grandsons. I like
to imagine these boys love life in San Juan, bringing
their grandfather gifts they found in the ocean or in the sand.
A seashell. Seaglass. A lost plastic shovel. He ho-ho’s and smiles
at the sandy one-man’s treasure, asks they clean each object
then return it to him—shiny. They do. Then he instructs
them to find a better way to present their gifts,
so that he may be surprised. And the boys go out
and find big leaves and forgotten bikini tops,
cans and flown-away paper food boats. They place
their beachcombed bounty at Santa’s feet, and he opens
the gifts—delighted one after another, then the last one—he pops
open a shining tin can to find a singing Coquí. Ho-ho-ho!
Santa tells each of them one at a time, eye-to-eye: you will
make a good Santa one day for your families—and the boys nod
and run suntired and tan back toward the waves.
Santa lights a cigar, ignoring a Facetime from his Head Elf,
and watches the boys in sepia tint run from a greedy flock of seagulls.
Mouth Wash / Christina Vagenius
For The Spider In The Bathroom Sink
I’m not scared of you anymore.
And all the eyes that damned you,
a splurge of open tissue on the counter.
Wait, let me walk you back to the tiled floor
days, subterranean cracks breed creature comforts.
The porcelain rope tug of stop. Hold on, I whisper too soft
to be heard, slow drip encouragement. And how the two of us
lived side by side, you in the dark. Me, opening a new page,
checking the weather, dark for days. A web wound around
bristles, mouth washed clean, poured down the throat, never
to be seen — again. Minty fresh. Early morning rising, the rinse
of bleach and black magic from the rag. Were you lonely
when the web didn't reach? It’s raining. I’m sorry
another drain on your eight-limbed path.
Patanjali’s cursed meditation, repose. I’m
sorry. It’s raining. I used to feel shame.
But I washed my hands of it.
Geology Lesson / Sonya Wohletz
Flakes of calcium carbonate shake through the sea like falling snow.
What we call it now is not what we will call it later.
On a further shore, a cephalopod catches the earthquake
in its tender curve and cradles itself back into fissile solidity.
Quartz and calcite fuse grief slowly to the seabed, though they have no
perspective, no hands to mend the wounds. These sediments cupboard
strange bloods. New volcanoes crackle in their mothers’ arms—dreams
of ice swarming at the intersection of unspeakable aeons,
the lower spectrum of indigo, flushing out the strata,
slipping its spine into the clay of a dead man’s heart.