August - Poem 23

Icarus fell at the end of it / Zoe Berger

I swear I’m trying 
to turn grief to light 

I too want to see 
a bright thing
and I’m laughing 
at the kitchen table 
with you because really 
what else is there to do

Out the window 
the leaves let go, finally
(dancing as they fall)
(light beaming through their skins)

taos to denver    / Ashley Howell

can i hold another ring
wear another piece of heart
we saw the last moments mountain

after we burnt our skin in the desert sun
how we move from one plain to another sky
with what seems like ease
knowing death comes with letting go

The Destroyer (for Appa on his birthday) / Dahhee Chung

A little tornado with untamed roots sprouted out of…
Who can say, 
With the same fury and fire 
As my unbound procreator 
Who has howled at the moon 
And fought with the sun.
“Seventy nine.”
He sighed,
“I thought I would be happy if this was my last one,”
Then cried,
“But that little boy kissed the freckles on my arm
And his sweet voice said I love you,”
The peace he felt,
Destroyed,
Cause now he wants more time.  

Patron saint of hopeless causes / Ash Kemp

Nightly we endure
Not silence, exactly,
But an absence of other sounds
Outside ourselves

Patron saint of delirious dreams

Daily we ask you 
Can a dream become reality
Even when it’s been crushed and forced to be forgotten?

Poetry / Hannah Page

is not a commodity but
I am rich on reams of it, excessively
draping ink-wet paper lengthwise
across the dining room carpet over
the table set with thrifted china
scalloped and gilded between the
chips and I scotch taped together
a dress for our courthouse wedding
out of my most sordid laments
because all the words strung together
to the resonance of the ocean’s
pull were emptied of their gravity
in the laser light of our third
and final homecoming.

At the Desk / PF Potvin

honestly, from here there’s not much to see
unless you’re a boring-o who’s into watching dad
close his eyes and stare at the ceiling
with his head back like a zombie guy
breathing just enough
to keep his sooooo slow heart from actually stopping
I love my cousin’s graduation picnic picture though
when we hung out with our papa, nana, uncle, aunts, and cousins
they had those mini cakes you top and played tons of cornhole
I had vanilla frosting, marshmallows, hot fudge, and rainbow sprinkles
my uncle almost hit nana in the head like 20 bazillion times with beanbags
she wasn’t even playing the game
he really needs to learn how to throw
actually, my dad IS like me
unfinished projects everywhere
these framed paragraphs signed by someone named Lydia Davis
one about going to the bathroom and seeing the moon
the other about a monk and a train
what I don’t get is after 5 years why it’s still on the floor
next to his acoustic guitar
leaning against the wall with the other frames
one of my brother’s school pictures and another of mine
speaking of, dad’s nuts, he’s too skinny to be santa
but linz is the perfect mrs. clause
she can handle anything
dad’s always so dramatic
scrunching up his face
so you can’t see his eyes
I bet it’s not even sour
everybody has scrunchie eyes in that picture from gg’s funeral
weird and sad
we used to visit her all the time
eat treats, do puzzles, play games, and listen to that bear
sing butterfly kisses
which reminds me of our old house
and my yellow submarine shirt
nana’s washing something in the sink behind me
I’m cuddling my stuffie horse that’s actually still on my bed
did I tell you my frame’s bigger than my brother’s
he can always have mine though, if he wants

Slow motion /  Janette Schafer

A cento composed from lines/phrases from
Jason Irwin’s memoir, “These Fragments I Have Shored”

I was about to reach out to her—
my mother had lost a lot of blood.
I thought of the times we drove across
town. I imagine she assuaged herself
with coffee and cigarettes and music.
I felt the desire to just drive away.
Together we ran down the hallway—
slow motion style. Some nights
as I lay in bed, I could hear it ticking.
I considered my prayers had been 
answered. I painted the shutters.
Our new home became a sanctuary.

NIGHT MIRROR  / Kate Thuma

We can be invisible in daylight, 
but I’m collecting bioluminescence 
in imperceptible tracks 
your fingerprints have swept over me. 

Every brush of your shirt, hands, nose 
sends a spray 
of whatever these little lives are 
out into the universe, 
so my shoulders and back 
are faintly lit like a star 
on the very edge of death. 

You glow me, still. 
I sparkle you.

Long after I’m consumed 
by the hopeful, accidental wormhole 
that brought me to this time, 
the parts of you that twinkle on me 
will just be reaching distant planets 
with their own watchers looking up 
at a fraternal-twinned night sky, 
wondering at the brilliant pinpricks 
in the shape of the history of love.