August - Poem 21

Poem of Poor Translation, a Cento from the Hall of Immortal Poets / Zoe Berger

The star belongs 
‍ ‍To know the taste
‍ ‍Of the bitter end 
‍ ‍Singing

It’s already gone, the feeling 
Of rejoicing in the drizzle
The song of the early self-hearted 
Wind and rain, falling
Leaves in the evening
Where is the empty place?

In the cold light, the clouds are full 
Of sweet water escaped from the world
If you can find the blue,
Hold on to it
This meridian dream

Late August   / Ashley Howell

A brown leaf fell on my windshield today
Late August and the kids are going back to school

Someone sent me a video of us from 10 years ago
We were smiling, you were laughing 
That laugh I’ll never unhear

And I remember briefly how quickly things change
The person in the video looks like me, but I don’t remember much of her

I know she was unhappy 
I know she thought she was home
I know she loved you 

What would she think of us now
One of us dead 
The other far from that home
Missing it, but finally happy

West Door / Dahhee Chung

Halmuhnee brought me to Suh Moon Presbyterian Church before I knew which tongue I spoke.
I learned to read music notes before I learned my abc’s
And never learned my ga na da’s
Until English became primary.
     Suh Moon, West Door
A psychic once stopped me at a donut shop and prophesied,
“Your veil is thin. You have one foot in the living and one in the dead.”
She must have seen my foot on the west and the other on the east. 
Service held at a little home the first few years,
A Jindo barked in their backyard,
As the pastor’s older children taught us “Jesus Loves Me”. 
They didn’t know which language I sang,
Because my mouth was sewn shut
Except I could perform John 3:16 in English, Hangul and my hands
In front of the congregation,
And my Halmuhnee was proud. 
A fiery four year old was the only one who heard my voice.
The uncertainty of who we were
Knitted us together for her lifetime. 
Late night drives,
A pack of smokes and the “what if” talks till dawn,
Repeat again next day at dusk
When we both just woke again from late night escapades. 
We visited West Door every Christmas Eve,
Before our ritual midnight feast at Denny’s. 
A club sandwich with ketchup and Tabasco for me, 
and Moons Over My Hammy she chose every time. 
I had a baby and She died.
The coroner confirmed it natural at twenty-seven as divine intervention. 
I oscillated between denial and bargaining,
And the West Door God became my enemy.
My Halmuhnee outlived her a year,
Her brain forgot her cancer.
And the pastors and worshippers of West Door,
Visited like angels holding trumpets her last day here. 
Appa said she cried then saw her fly until her face turned white.
Briefly, her mind came back before hymns carried her to 
The Father, who art in 
that place with 
Her Husband, Twins,
And Debbie.
I finally cried,
And moved forward. 

Visitor / Ash Kemp

after Joseph Fasano

I have been the hot embers 
cooling among the scattered fires of this world
I have been the silence in the fog. I have been the thread in the spool,
The mist in the morning after the storm. 
But it is time. It is time. 
 Reunion is knocking at my door,
wearing its  sentient mask of flames. 
Life, my visitor, admit it. 

Getting My Navel Re-Pierced In Times Square / Hannah Page

Not a fresh prick; a
repurposing: scar blooming
around gleaming bar

Until You Know / PF Potvin

A man in red sandals, Speedo, and robe looked down into the pool. “It’s gone,” he said to  the bald man who didn’t look up, just scooped it out of the water. “You can’t really know until you know.” He let it down smooth like a blanket on the warm concrete. After a few seconds, Speedo turned and left, slamming the gate. The bald man lowered his goggles, dove back into his laps, and didn’t think about the bee again until he sat down at twilight to write a poem.

The sentinels /  Janette Schafer

after a photograph by Keith Hileman

Two pale trunks—
gateposts to 
the narrow dark
between them.

Those who 
know the signs
will turn around
and not look back. 

Those who enter 
through these ribs
may hear a whistle call—
and if they whistle back,
you will not see them at all. 

A DIAGNOSIS   / Kate Thuma

There’s an ocean stone
stitched behind my navel,
buttoning me to the ground
with my knees up,
big toes brushing. 
I can peer through the 
hazy window between 
my thighs and see the world 
with only soft edges 
as long as I don’t move.