December - Poem 24
A Snow Day for the Ancients / Kate Bowers
I just can’t stop when my spark gets hot”
—The Trammps, Disco Inferno, (Original Long Version), 1976
For Jenna
What if Pompeii were to reverse itself,
The land no longer ashen but instead becoming very cold,
Snow filled like a cream horn or cannoli,
And every citizen no longer a hollowed shape within pumice
But instead forever fully embodied and frozen
In a moment of joy, of tender companionship,
Or just plain fun?
The fascination tour groups of the future would have
Wandering through the dazzling light,
The figures caught in play, men talking together
Handing mundane things back and forth to one another purposefully
While in that convo—as men often do regardless of the topic—
Is unprecedented.
For surely that glint from ancient snow would sparkle new eyes,
Raise the edges of new lips even slightly,
And new mothers would, without exception or pause, say
“Where are their hats in such weather?”
Cold ears being clearly visible.
A museum of joy weathering it side-by-side,
Master and pupil shoulder to shoulder with a museum of fury.
Which is fire, which is ice?
“I’m not talking about burning down a building.
It’s coming from the soul,” sang Jimmy Ellis,
Years before Kristin Bell called us to “Let It Go,”
—6-7, 6 of these, a half a dozen of the other, this or that—
—this lingering on the threshold agonizing on which door hides
behind it the proper prize, the price that is right —
—any dab will do ya, yabba dabba do, slicked back or flyaway—
In the meantime, all SOME people can seem to do is sing! Right?!?!
Up above my head
I hear music in the air
That makes me know
There’s a party somewhere
Whether you’re in the head OR the heart, dear reader, be assured
it’s still the breath in,
the butterfly opening its wings and folding them again on the exhale,
the accordion sound,
the dance,
the shimmer left shining through the ether
despite threatened imminent and actual destruction.
Don’t you rescue me.
Let my spirit burn free.
So much joy flaring through the sky
So many shapes vanishing or memorializing themselves
Now you see them, now you don’t.
And outside of Robert, do we care if we end in ice or fire?
Is that really what we’re really talking about here?
Men Plan / Katie Collins
I learned love
At the feet of reality television
What matters most is not how you feel
But how it looks to an audience you may never meet
Before I give myself time to consider
How I feel
I’m making a decision
Based off what the best story will be
I hope God is entertained
A muse is a muse is a muse / Ellen Ferguson
While not technically found on Swapcandy
There’s white chocolate gingerbread bark from the lounge,
Resting comfortably in the front seat
While we wait for the truck in the sleet
You found Me?
Pet adoption, foster kids on the couch,
My old friends the Chobanis --
You excuse, you placeholder, you throwaway
A muse is a muse is a muse.
Just saying thanks!
Now there’s a tip for those sweet trash collectors
Slick in the sleet. Without cash,
Now there’s something to give, despite being white chocolate
last choice, not chocolate, sugared tree facsimile.
If you don’t have thirty bucks in your pocket
That’s about you, not me.
We amuse bouche found objects, we Jane Birkins,
We guys shining buckles at the bar:
A muse is a muse is a muse.
At the Airport Gate / Chris Fong Chew
I'll be home for Christmas
Plays on the airport radio through staticky speakers while a loudspeaker announces the final boarding call for a flight to Dallas.
You can plan on me
Staring at the clock as the time to boarding counts down. Staring at the family across the way wearing Christmas hats while matching luggage rolls behind them.
Please have snow and mistletoe
Watching the snowfall on the runway, salt trucks rush out to melt the snow, de-icing machines spray each plane before takeoff. Orange chemicals glaze the wings.
And presents on the tree
There is a wreath hung on the front of the runway vehicles, festive warmth, as workers in thick coats plow through the wind and snow.
Christmas Eve will find me
Flashing lights, red and green on the planes as they await takeoff. Through the windows a traveler stares out at the stormy sky, while another's face is illuminated by the light of a screen.
Where the lovelight gleams
This year 122 million people will be headed home for the holidays, transiting through airport hubs, trains, cars, and buses.
I'll be home for Christmas
And movement is in the air, and I move with it, one of the millions heading home for Christmas
If only in my dreams
I love you as you love the world / Davis Hicks
You do not announce yourself
with porcelain-promises and proclaimed good.
There is no campaign cruising out of your kindness.
You simply are, and simply do
as the barn owl does, with gentle and silent wings
searching within the silence.
Your eyes are willing to see
what I cannot, what many would squint at
if only in annoyance.
Willing to notice the orange of the trees
and the kind softness-smiles of older men
you know are
still human.
I have seen you claw your way
away from the warm and the quiet,
reversing hibernation to cover the shifts of those who
budget their work ethic.
You’re willing to crack your wrists,
whirlpooling while refusing to stop
the life-giving of chest compressions,
refusing to let death grasp at anyone
in your charge.
You take up the banner of bearing witness
even as the eyes
begin to close.
You do not forget injustice,
do not callous your heart,
do not bow at the throne of spinelessness
even as kissing the ring would provide
that which you have chased before.
You keep no ledger, no nice list,
and do not withhold
your shift-gifts
even from those who do not
give back.
Yet you keep your wonder,
witness of the sweetness of small children
and the simple pleasure of wonderful things.
You are a perfect noticer.
I pray I can be as
human
as you.
You have always respected
those usually seen through glances,
have not considered doing
anything less than the life-saving,
being anything less
than my hero.
4 / Victor Barnuevo Velasco
There are always
two mirrors before
my face -- mine
and my father’s.
I smile and I see
his smirk. I furrow
my brows and he
stares back at me
through the glasses
on the tip of his nose.
I pick up a pen
and his hand moves
through the pages.
Driving I-90, I see
him in the rearview --
snaking in the sands
of Al-Bayda. I wish he
overtakes and stops
me. Maybe then I will
have answers to questions
he never asked.
And questions
to answers he never
offered.
Mostly Me / Jen Wagner
Watching kids.
Learn to surf.
Practice splits in the sand.
Build towers and duck under waves.
I pick seashells from between my toes.
And chase my sun hat
That gets blown away by the breeze.
Over and
Over
Again.
A game I like to play with the wind.
Since she can’t pick up a ball.
Gulls dive.
Men stare.
We’re all pretty out here.
Red knees.
Salty curls.
This is where I am mostly me.
