December - Poem 12
God Will Hear / Kate Bowers
For Mae and Lane
M - any fear the reporter, the latency of words captured
O – thers fear the singer, the wide audiences compelled by rhythm, the dance of it, every illusion fragile
U – tterances seem definitive, archival, images beyond argument, proof of fault versus what is true
S - tillness the very last thing imagined bringing solace, or capable of opening a way to the
E -ar of God, so big as to be small, fully awake among all creatures, the tiniest of whispering sounds, their wind tracing thin tracks like whiskers in snow, listening, listening
No Dial Tone / Katie Collins
The landline’s not connected to the phone jack
The calls don’t go in or out
Spectrum says to reboot it
When that fails, someone will be by Monday
To plug in the cord you’d plug in
if you knew where the hell the phone jack was
But that ancient knowledge has been locked away
With the real estate agent you’re too scared to call
For a Friend in Mourning on His Birthday / Ellen Ferguson
You gave away this:
Everything
Your heart his heart
Your birthday his memorial
The ceremony on Saturday
His, not yours. And yet,
Yours, too since
“Everything I have is yours”
Billie Holiday sang
Every holiday -- shared
No matter who’s there
There they are.
Origin Story as Haibun / Chris Fong Chew
The son found himself on a plane crossing the ocean vast. This magical machine taking to the skies without hesitation, launching the son ten thousand feet into the clouds. High above, the world became small, and vast at the same time. Traveling at speeds beyond the technologies of his father’s and grandfather's age, the son would arrive on the other shore within a day's journey. The son would marvel at the blue of the ocean, the green of the land, the white of the clouds, the brightness of the sun, and the darkness of the night. His world would start to grow larger and larger as the land on the opposite side of the ocean began to emerge in the distance. As it grew closer, to be able to land, the magical flying machine transformed itself into a dragon, with the passengers secured safely, they descended from the heavens as peasants turned gods, welcomed into the foreign land.
It was only in
myth to be welcome to the
new land openly
I can still see blueberries on their naked bushes / Davis Hicks
Across the orange looseness of acres between their seasons,
between the brambles loving the edges of formal growth
there’s only a handful of them. Hidden, not gems but shimmering
with dark near-bursting skin, the opposite of orange.
There’s a glimmer, the semi-shadow of memory recorded over memory recorded over memory
over knowing what will come in a swipe
of cruelty when the seasons run
their route-race. That ball, the blue-bounce of berries born
of white, uncurling blooms. Slow growing, darkened branches,
those naked arms unafraid to raise in worship, in search of a shrinking
sun. Grief-grown, having to develop
during the embodied dark. Throughout mulch’s shards,
those well-thrown pots, scatter-shattered
across that untiled floor, they live. In pale snow-death and colorful kudzu-suffocation,
they keep their slow, long crawl into the sky,
and remember what happens
when we just
leave life alone.
What we say when we really mean to say love / Victor Barnuevo Velasco
Mother says, take the umbrella, my knees are hurting again. I cannot recall when she turned into a crow. On a bright humid day, she rubs her palms and declares her joints foretell a coming storm. Weigh down the roof, she says. Check on your brother. Ask if they have enough rice and water.
She has not spoken to him in months. She has forgotten how to pronounce his name. Tell your brother to brace their fence. My brother has forgotten how to say her name. Tell your mother we are fine, he says. After he left my mother’s house, my brother turned into an owl. He turns his head backward to check on his children. They are sparrows, pecking rice from the stalks.
There are days when I, too, forget to name them: mother, father, and brother; grandfather and grandmother. Aunties, uncles, and cousins who have soared into the sky. They drop by every now and then, often during the dry season. They arrive as woodpeckers and swallows, herons and egrets. They bring flowers and field mice. They pile feathers, twigs, and pinecones. Store these on good days, they say. The months of monsoon are coming.
I ask about the trade winds they traveled, about meteor showers we may have watched from opposite horizons. I ask about wild boars and pythons, the elegant chorus of frogs in the evening. We talk about burrowed nests and treetops. Cumulus and contrails.
Isn’t it amazing, I say, how air becomes visible? The crow replies, you can always see what you love, though it is absent. I feel the breeze shuffle my hair as it beats its wings.
Holy Ghost / Jen Wagner
Intrusive thoughts.
Ask me…
What if?
What if I ghosted you?
Disappeared.
A shadow against a wall
In a room where the light suddenly flicked on.
So fast you wonder…
Was I even real?
I don’t even know if I was real.
I always remind people of someone else.
Like a shapeshifter against my own will.
Reconfiguring myself
To be what she needs.
What he wants.
I’m not what you think I am.
You are…
What you think I am.
Because I
Am a mirror.
A reflection.
A Holy Ghost at your service.
You will love me…
Or maybe you will loathe me.
But you’ll never be the one to ghost me.
Magic / Stacy Walker
The magic still lives
Inside her heart,
A true believer,
She claims from the start.
A letter written
With love and care,
She doesn’t question,
She wouldn’t dare.
In a note she wishes
The helpers well,
A test presented,
Dear Santa, please tell,
Begging to know
What the elves like to eat,
With carrots and cookies,
She’d leave them a treat.
But it isn’t just
Information to gather,
It’s proof in writing,
Evidence, rather.
She tells me she’ll know
If it’s me who replies,
Only wanting to see
How Santa’d advise.
And while the question
Puts it all on the line
Her hope is to keep
The story divine.
The magic still lives
Inside her heart,
A true believer,
She claims from the start.
