August - Poem 11

Control / Zoe Berger

I have been holding very still so as not to change
Meanwhile the leaves in the park admit defeat

I once loved a baby for what it could be
then cursed it for throwing a fit

If winter must come then at least let it stay
Forgive me for thanking Death for his consistency

New Mexico  / Ashley Howell

Always smells like 
smoke and rain
And I saw writing
On the sidewalk
“Free Palestine”
So I took a picture
Walking downtown
With music dancing
Through the Plaza
And centuries of 
Occupation
Revolution
Occupation

Free Palestine the 
Streets of Sante Fe
Scream
We must all
Scream
Free Palestine 

Alien / Dahhee Chung

Those who raised me stuck in the past from their home,
Black and white.
While I’m stuck in technicolor,
Marching the yellow brick road. 

I write for myself,
My country of one,
The language you call metaphors,
The only one. 

And so,
No translation, 
Dap! Fist pounds my chest
No destination,
Dap! Fist pounds my chest
No explanation,
Hae! Fist pounds my chest
Just
Exhaustion 
Frustration 
Pounding my chest
Dap! Dap! Hae!

I. / Ash Kemp

After Rudy Francisco

Pilryk: noun-
The incandescent, tingly and warm feeling left behind after a kiss that makes you believe in love

I used to chase that feeling,
That experience of being wanted.
Now I exist in limbo—
Part want, part dissatisfaction,
Always a body close with pain.
The feeling retreats so quickly
After a kiss,
Can I get another?

Desire / Hannah Page

I am damned
to embody my
artistry on and off
the stage: draped
in velvet, dripping
pearls and
poetry
all
the
way
down
to the
floor

I want more
than tepid water late
at night in a cool
glass on a
rooftop — more
than what’s good
for me, probably
Certainly more
than what’s
allowed because
I am more
than what’s allowed
in most states and
in all minor territories
More than the
words I assign
to my person; collect
like puffy stickers across
my arms like all my
tattoos from assorted
shops on St. Mark’s
I couldn’t name
any of them no

2,000 Year Prayer / PF Potvin

let me be today
like Giacomo De Mola free

diving near Sicily’s coast
with snappers and eels 

in prep for a spear
fish competition with calm

control and wind full
in the chest for as long 

as it takes to discern my Roman
ship gone drowned

and parse a large rock
from a fortune of amphorae

On the occasion of staying in my car during a thunderstorm /  Janette Schafer

First, there’s the practical matters—
I forgot my umbrella, didn’t want to wreck
my hair or dress—
not when the pleats are neat as a pin, 
fresh from the dry cleaner. 

There is also the calm I feel today.
from a lovely meditation on my porch—
The squirrels were holding conversation,
and the robins, a lovers’ quarrel, 
all of which they let me overhear—

I know this will disappear once
the car door opens and I walk across
the parking lot into the office.
Besides, Poulenc’s oboe concerto still plays
through the car stereo, his delightfully strange

dancing harmonies kissing the raindrops.
The torrents come and lightning
crackles against the sky, water falling 
in layers. Orisha is stopping by Pittsburgh, 
and I’ll spill from my Subaru soon. 

DYING IN FAIRY CIRCLES   / Kate Thuma

When they’re close to death, 
Redwoods release thousands of seeds, 
and the lucky ones root into the ground 
in a circle around the dying tree – 
when you come upon a stand of Redwoods 
in a fairy circle around nothing, 
it’s not a cursed place, 
it’s children holding vigil over their mother. 

The seeds drip down in ponding ripples 
until eventually one drops into the exact place 
a long-dead tree (her many-times-great-grandmother)
once vined her roots just beneath the surface, 
shallow so she could link arms under the dirt 
and send blood to a distant cousin
through the fog. 

Caring is so much a part of her biology
That it’s impossible to tell if she does it against her will, 
or if she can push a choice through her bark 
and open herself to sacrifice. 

She holds brain and heart and agency 
in a form unrecognizable to humans. 
There’s so much we don’t know yet – 
there’s more love in the carotid arboreal transfer of water
than some are capable of passing through hands. 

They’re burning all around us and screaming smoke for miles, 
and we don’t know how they honor their dead, 
but we know it’s something about a circle.