December - Poem 11
The Posts About the Cat Are Also About Mercy / Kate Bowers
For Mae and Lane
295,000 silverware sea lions are to be released into New York City’s harbor— that’s all I know except also the traffic is insane right now, women in 1960s convertibles driven by tomato heads lined up for miles at the light ahead there underneath the yellow bridge.
The day is clear. The sky is a light blue. And I am wresting on a boulder near the sea with my hand on the shoulder of a sea lion, a bull. I say wresting with that wr sound because there is constant light negotiation and re- negotiation between us, bulls being the driven, combative creatures that they are and me being as indolent as they come
I dreamed this dream of summer promise in the middle of a restless, 10-degree night. It gets very cold where I sleep in the house especially around 1 a.m. The wind somehow gets in through a crack around the bottom of the window at the foot of the bed, and I wake up shivering, my face and hands as cold as iced perch on display at the market. After gathering blankets around myself more closely up to the chin, I inevitably fall back asleep until I wake again at 4 a.m. or so, heated to the point of a summer’s day, the furnace blower sounding in my ear, and I throw off every blanket to establish some type of equilibrium.
I dreamed this dream between those hours. There are cherry tomatoes on the vine still in their carton in my counter this morning I know as I still lie here recollecting it all. They are from another state. I bought them yesterday in advance of the snow. There are no sea lions. It has been years in fact since I’ve been to the ocean, and never along New York City’s shore. I don’t know what it all means. I never do until I do.
Some women try to rewrite a difficult narrative into a different form, turning Melville’s prose into scanned lines of rosier poetry on the page rather than reading the turbulent paragraphs as they are. But that makes for a very different tale and never works for me. A harbor is a trampoline at heart, never meant to be otherwise, I feel.
The tiny stray cat along the sea stairs there for example across from the bull and me nearly didn’t make it into this dream at all according to the Rabbi who reported this the other day after his children had found her, her teacup-sized eyes crusted over, alive with fleas.
When he took her in, the vet told him the kitten might not live, was hours close to death, but she went to work with syringes and heating pads. We followed along and saw her re-bloom. Mercy is after all a series of steps climbing away from despair, and putting our feet down we traveled the path of the Rabbi’s posts on our phones in the real real time, each one of them more meaningful to us than anything he had ever written in Hebrew. So many more followers now pushing out to sea.
Throughout, the Rabbi seemed curiously unsure of what to do next, relying on our urgings in the comments section to make his choices. Now the cat has clear eyes and a name. Imagine opening a door that wide to a wave of concern, how far it lifts a creature up and onto new land.
Kick at the Water / Katie Collins
Kick at the water.
Trash, gnarl, and spit.
Do whatever you have to do to make it back to the air.
As the current drags you down,
As the waves roll over you,
Fight back however you can.
And when you get to the air,
Kick the water.
Thrash, gnarl, and spit.
Do whatever you have to do to make it back to land.
As your body grows weary,
As your lungs give out,
Find whatever strength you can.
And when you get to land,
Take shelter.
Rest.
When you wake,
Go back to shore.
Search for those still drowning.
Women’s size 33 (16, but fit more like 12/14 / Ellen Ferguson
Turning in the widening gyre, Yeats knew it:
Fatty liver and bacon, am I right?
"We can always use a little bit more,
Am I right or am I right?" Ned said
Ned didn't mean cake pops
Brownie bites, bacon blasters
When The Knack sang
"Good girls don't, but I do,"
they got it:
snacking like the devil, on and on
Gold Mountain / Chris Fong Chew
Across the ocean vast, sits a land
of riches beyond the imagination.
Valleys lush with green and creeks
flowing with pieces of gold.
I want you to go there the father said to his son. To the land beyond the ocean. Where there are riches beyond the imagination. Find the valleys lush with green and creeks flowing with pieces of gold. Go there and bring back wealth to this land, the land ravaged by bombs and guns and war. Go there and bring hope to this land once more. Within you we each place a dream, carry these with care. Each dream is fragile and can be crushed under the weight of pessimism or despair. Do not despair.
Across the ocean vast, sits a land
of riches beyond the imagination.
Valleys lush with green and creeks
flowing with pieces of gold.
Do not despair for the place you are headed is full of wonder and myth. Make the myths be true, see the riches for yourself, bring us back a piece so we may hold it for ourselves. Find the land, its lush valleys and creeks, and find the gold. If you cannot find it in the valley, search in the creek, if you cannot find it in the creek, burrow deep into the ground. The will of the ancestors will give you the strength and guide you on the right path.
Across the ocean vast, sits a land
of riches beyond the imagination.
Valleys lush with green and creeks
flowing with pieces of gold.
On the right path you go, a right then a left. Afterwards, you must find your way. Follow the heart to the land beyond the ocean vast. Find the valley with the lush green and may there be riches abundant. Please do write when you arrive, gold mountain will be a place of wonder.
There’s a coyote behind your glasses / Davis Hicks
Put there before the glasses
and before you knew you’d need them.
Before the beard
and before you could grow stubble
or know you’d need to not see even the rubble
of any other meat-eater. Eye-guide, soul-scanner
ever good at seeing what rolling looks might miss. Hunter and scavenger,
all scrapping willing to scrape for all. To Tomahawk, not hatchet
but steak, that fruitless juicy indulgence
the opposite of decadent. Seeking what's served
with yeast rolls, anything steamy
and a cardiac warning, only sought at the end
of so many straining mornings. The gnawing that knots,
the scent always paired with coyote promises,
gifts of need and full inner fire. Feel them warm the booth-breath,
witness your twin in the grilling scars of the char of charcoal, the mark of the genuine,
smell floating like grouse unground. Pepper, earthy, all the slobber-summoners.
With potatoes and greens, so many grown
things
consumed in tandem.
A fang-fetched feast, meal shared as the wild-eaters do, defended
if only like a lamb
in the mouth we both have
the mouth of the body-dragger.
Grandmother had hidden wealth / Victor Barnuevo Velasco
Grandmother was rich. She went into the chicken house, lifted an entire nest, reached under the split bamboo, and retrieved folded peso bills.
She dug into a bag of rice, took out a sardine can, removed the paper bag, and pulled out folded peso bills.
She dusted her row of saints, rubbed the heads of Mary and Saint Michael, lifted the baby Jesus from the manger, and recovered folded peso bills.
She lifted the back of her skirt, untied a cotton tube belt, let it slide between her thumb and palm, and out came folded peso bills.
Grandmother pulled out folded peso bills from everywhere. She had none whenever Grandfather asked for cockfight money. Or for the lottery. Or for gin and beer. But she made folded peso bills appear for Mother’s electric bill and my brother’s shoes and my schoolbook. Then for another. And another.
Crows / Jen Wagner
The big black crows overhead
Follow me as I wander.
The Robin sings her song of spring.
Always over my shoulder.
The cardinals collect in trees
Right outside my window.
The sweet little wren in my hand
As I begin to remember.
The way my mother calls me In
From the ever growing darkness.
Streetlights as our guiding light.
Chasing after sunsets.
Wandering the darkest paths
The crow as the only witness.
Singing songs to carry us home
From our otherworldly places.
Wandering. Not lost.
As the remembering overtakes me.
Eyes closed. Face to the sun.
That warmth…how it transports me.
To spaces I remember well.
Only memories now. But they save me.
From the world we know in all grey tones.
But, the crows…they still embrace me.
Toxic / Stacy Walker
The one that sticks around
When others would go,
Run away,
Escape.
She holds
What needs to be held,
Carrying my burdens,
My heaviest loads.
I’ve come to expect
A lot,
Maybe I’ve pushed
Too far,
Knowing all
She’s capable of,
Having seen
Her power.
She returns again
And again,
Whether I deserve it
Or not,
Wounds hidden,
Sometimes a bit slower,
Quieter,
Than before.
I’ve been unkind,
Insisting upon more
Than I should,
Selfish in my needs,
Thoughtless about hers,
Shattering her belief
In herself,
As she carefully, cautiously
Watches each step.
But today I paused,
My voice softer,
More unconditional,
Giving her space
To move on her own,
Hesitantly trusting
What felt safe,
What felt free.
And while out of practice,
Less sure,
This body of mine,
Reminded me,
She will always carry
My burdens and me,
But a little bit
Of kindness and love
Go a long way.
