December - Poem 2

The Soul Cannot Be Loved For Its Labor / Kate Bowers

for Moriah Cohen

Tough news for Miss Universe contestants, for sure, in the midst of all the gym time they’ve been logging. But there it is in Ecclesiastes. 6:7. Black and white. Et al. concur:

“All labor is for the mouth.”

Really? The one place that causes most if not all the world’s trouble?

I’d like to talk without speaking, without words or even consonants or syllables for awhile. May I fashion you a sigil in the shape of a heart? Draw you a tree? Perhaps place a newborn beetroot of sizable girth on your work desk as a greeting, moist soil still clinging here and there to the bulb, topped with greens as high as a fan dancer’s headdress in those old films about Vegas?

I once met a man at a May Market who sold tomatoes of every size, all types underneath a small tent on the edge of the field. He called out to me thoughtfully, feeling my eyes on the leaf heads stirring with the tiny whispering sound of the wind that day.

“What are you looking for in the way of the tomato?” he asked.

Shyly, I demurred. He paused then turned placing before me a 4-inch-thick binder filled with photos of various tomatoes. Underneath each photo was a full writeup—the genus, growing conditions, best cooking and eating combinations, and daily care.

They were laminated and three-hole punched. They were stoned. Immaculate.

“Pick out a few that you like,” he said then turned to wait on another customer.

I tagged my choices, and when he returned, he brought his wife and mid-40ish son along to advise. Now all four of us were locked onto the binder as they so carefully and courteously debated in great detail what other species I might need, offered up recipes, shared their pedigrees as growers, pointing to specific pages along the way.

Honestly, I think they forgot about me for awhile as the discussion deepened. Somehow four elegant plants were chosen, carefully wrapped in brown-handled bags with tissue and ribbon and a card and handed to me. Turns out, this man had grown tomatoes for a nationally recognized Italian food company for thirty years—DeLallo’s if you must know—and had just retired.

“Now,” he said as he let go of the bags into my hands, “I can do what I really love—grow tomatoes at home and share them with people.”

He used his mouth when he said that, all the syllables and letters. And he looked into me eye-to-eye as he let go, welcoming me onto the vine and said “Just don’t forget to take care to water them now. Plants grow their best for you when they know you love them.”

This proved later to be true, each summer salad more glorious than the last.

Ring Ring / Katie Collins

Three calls in five minutes.  You haven't changed much.
I remember hundred hour weeks and panic attacks.
But that's not my life anymore.
You're not my life anymore.

I guess I can understand how you got this way.
When everything you've ever wanted was at your fingertips, 
it can be hard to learn to wait.
But why would you expect me to need a moment?

When I took a moment for court,
you called, emailed, and somehow lost the DVD's power cord.
When I took a moment because my father was in the hospital,
you called, texted, emailed, and broke down.

Eleven months ago, you let me go.
For one month after, there wasn't a day when someone didn't mention you.
Then it was twice a week.
Then once a week.

Usually, the people reaching out are tangentially related.
They ask me because, when they think of you, they think of me.
So I redirect.  Politely.  Delicately.
Pretending it doesn't bother me.

When they think of me, they think of you.
That's why I still get calls.
But you don't get to be one of them.
Not anymore.

Three calls in five months.  You haven't changed much. 
I remember hundred hour weeks and panic attacks.
But that's not my life anymore.
You're not my life anymore.

I let it ring.

2 boxes of Bustelo coffee pods. Pickup in the finance office.   / Ellen Ferguson

In 1922, Eddie Cantor first performed “Yes, we have no bananas”   
In the play                       Make it Snappy
             on Broadway

Like Eddie          you skipped over where I waited

                                                      In Aisle 9

Turning to Max from HR to say,

“I found it!”

You found me,

Just the thing to make it snappy,

Down the long hall to Finance,                  

you thought.

Eddie Cantor laughed about the things we lacked

Like you, hoping to offer espresso not bonuses

Pretty little cups lined by the wall, not checks;

Oh Denise from Finance, the dreams we had.

Waiting like in Aisle 9 for the big checkout:

You told James, from Payroll, that you’d only give it until Christmas, otherwise –

Under the radiator, a pack of pink slips reaches deep like cats climbing walls for heat.

(re)written / Chris Fong Chew

in the building / words / were being / traded / shaped / written / (re)written /
morphed / molded / shaped / (un)shaped / collected / trashed / mangled / 
(de)stroyed / (de)constructed / (his)story / (her)story / cursory / glances / 
broken / bits / words / (re)worded / (re)written / in the building / called / 
archive / (arc)hive / story / (be)came / history / be(came) / national / 
narrative / (found)ing / (found)ation / nation / building / patriots / in the / 
building / history / was / (is) / be(ing) / re(written) / and I / written (out) / 

Meeting in the Middle of the Water Moon / Davis Hicks

I see you, as few do,
sitting on top of a lamppost, 
that light-leaker.
You are the only embellishment 
the new ones could dare to hold,
the single belief slipped into the drawers
 of hotel side tables.
I’d looked up for stars,
and there you are.
Looking up, where silhouette and solar flare
cascade,
you are their meeting place.
I can almost imagine our meeting place,
somewhere atop the benches and other
park placements.
But this is not a park,
and we are not known.
You have your water bottle,
the dented one with all the stickers, 
those external tattoos ostomy-bagged 
wherever you could find the room
 for unresting eyes.
I should use mine- they’re shoved into journals,
unattached like so many unstamped passports.
Yours still makes its way to work,
carrying your soul-scratches across its side
despite the coating starting to peel;
the beginning of many unbecomings.
It hangs loose from fiddling fingers, 
clacking their canon-call.
I can almost imagine climbing up,
seated next to you on our private-public lantern,
sharing sips under snipe sky.
I wonder what you hold in there,
the place that carries the cold,
double-walled like so many souls.
Squinting eyes cannot stay studying,
and I find the lamppost’s unsteady base.
There’s a climbable truth, somewhere.
I wipe my hands on jeans already fraying at the seams,
and wonder when I did forget myself.
No, I would not make it.
But would you save a sip for me?
Your throne is tall but my throat’s dry.
So please, even if to my coward’s cry,
tip your finger as Adam at creation.
Let gravity give.
Look with what lives purer than pupils 
and see. See,
and save,
save,
save some for me.

Pilar, before the altar / Victor Barnuevo Velasco

On her knees, her fingers travel the rosary.
She implores her saints before the dawn breaks.
Before the dark recedes inside the strangler fig.
On each bead she pauses to name a child.

The eldest daughter who will be married
to a stranger. To preserve the honor of her father.
The youngest who will marry a man she loves.
And lose him again and again. The son who
will outlive his wife and all his children.
The daughter who will never be called by her name.

All these will be years later. Right here, right now,
her children are lined up on a mat. They glow
in the candlelight. Tucked in blankets by her faith
and fears, safely, as though there is no difference. 

Finish What We Start  / Jen Wagner

The day won’t end without me telling you I love you. 
Because falling in love truly  is my absolute 
favorite 
thing to do.
And I have been waiting for more than half of my life
For the reason that I’ve fallen in love…
To be you.  

And now here we are. 
Finally. 
Face to face. 
Grown.
And changed.
But so much remains the same. 
I know that smile.
I’ve heard that laugh. 
And I know it belongs to you. 
I’ve felt those lips 
Against my own.
Warm. 
And Soft. 
And True. 

If I were half as smart 
As I usually think I am,
I would let you go.
Walk away.
And never once look back. 
But not tonight. 
Because the voices inside are constantly talking back. 
“Do not leave him. 
Not again. 
Or this time will be your last.”

So the voice inside that I choose to heed 
Is coming from my heart. 
Telling me to pull you closer
So we may never part. 
But the voice in my head keeps saying to me…
“Girl this isn’t smart”
But The memories flood.
And I come undone
This time. 
We finish what we start. 

when is it grief / Stacy Walker

When the muscles below my eyes
Give out,
Give way
To the heaviness
Of the tears,
All gathered there,
Pulling me down,
Slowing me down,
Waiting for release.

When the ache in my chest
Tightens,
A grip on my heart,
Not ready
To let go,
Holding on,
Wishing, wanting
One more moment.

When my body,
Carries tons,
Like dragging sandbags
Behind me,
Slow, the only option,
Weighed down,
They keep me
From floating away.