December - Poem 29

The Ladies Speak French  / Kate Bowers

There are six of them, white-haired
Reading aloud handwritten letters in French they have found somewhere then translating them aloud into English as well today. 

The flowing, pale blue cursive writing on the fragile, transparent paper is beautiful even at a distance.

They practice every Monday morning from inside the bookstore’s coffee shop and are delighted with themselves.

They are not loud when they are aloud. 

They are chic and elegant in their movements, even the two with canes.
They wear scarves and open collared shirts and rings on their hands.

They greet each other with kissing noises cheek to cheek—faire la bise.

They are not themselves French.

The cafe manager, heavily pregnant with twin girls to be named Genevieve, which means belonging to the tribe or race of women, and Simone, which means to be heard, knows all the ladies by name and has their usual orders waiting.

I do not know the café manager’s name.

The ladies ask after the babies as if they are their own.

So pleasant are their interactions one wonders
If they are related.

They are not.
They just want to become fluent in French.

Because someday.

Anonymous / Katie Collins

Lip gloss, bath bomb
Do you even know me?
I wonder if we’ve met before
Because I can’t tell
Half forgotten memories
I once held dear
Fade with the distance in your eyes
In my mind,
We laugh at the wrong moment
Delighting in missteps
We make together
French yogurt and panty hose
Do you still know our inside jokes
Or am I all alone?

Free Bombas Socks / Ellen Ferguson

How delightful! A man with a plan buys Bombas for his gal.
If she listened to her toes, we’d all be hugging now. Instead,
We three fuzzy pairs land on Swapcandy, free to make magic on some stranger’s soles.

Did you say Bombas?
Won’t those socks match three donated pairs?
Could socks be the new, improved fruitcake?

We are socks, not cake.
Perhaps you misunderstood, should return
To your hovel now.

Hear me out, socks. That guy with the wife who popped you on Swapcandy,
Three needy kids still got excellent socks. Let’s say Claudia over in Math now calls Bombas.
They respond again, Sure! On the house, sending socks to three more poorly shod.  

Oh, that’s what he means about cake. Pass
It forward. Yes,
Twelve feet much warmer and happier now.

Just when you thought we all lived in one bleak house
A landscape bereft of everything good. Yes, even we socks know
An idea with legs. Carry on, Bombas: the Santa of socks.

Global Broadcast  / Chris Fong Chew

To all the children of the world:

As bombs fall, a child is born 
As gunshots ring, a child is born 
As mines explode, a child is born

Into a world where metal tears into flesh 
and violence is the gift bestowed 
by generations previous and their 
hopes and dreams twisted 

Televised for global audiences
what kind of world are we
Crafting, passing along 
Constructing and tying 
neatly with a bow, labeled 
From: the current stewards of this world. 

where beginnings live / Davis Hicks

On the cusp of night
crickets tune their sawblades
to the sound of swaying grass
as the dew has settled
it’s gentle blanket down,
that quilt of shimmering cool
draped across the 
bed of everything alive.
From before the dawn comes the fickle-trickle
of rain romping through
its draining drizzle only just enough
to wet the world,
just as the faint feeling of it
purifies the mind 
and minds the pure.
Barefoot steps were made for such a time,
just as the sky is matching
stars and droplets both,
wish-giving as morning breath turns to 
gasp and tears are blinked away.
Only then, 
only in the interim
does all there is 
shimmer.

I want to love you like you love your freedom / Victor Barnuevo Velasco

What language must I speak so you understand
What freedom means, brother – if I call you that?

I see you always on television. At my doctor’s waiting
Room, you are on mute. You are staring directly at me.

Your arms stretch forward. Is it a hug you want to give?
Do you like to shake my hands or my shoulders?

I am reading your lips. Over and over. If only
I have the words you have yet to find.

I look at the number on my palm. How much
Longer must I wait before I am informed

Of the illness to treat? While you are free to march
Around. Brandishing freedom. As prayers and flags.

As guns. As blank pages of history on which you
Write. Over and over. As if healing words find us.

Grey Sweatpants Diva / Jen Wagner

According to my daughter,
divas also exist
in grey sweatpants
with mismatched slippers,
three-day unwashed hair,
and a face mask
desperately trying
to evict chin acne.

My superhero cape
is a men’s white T-shirt
with coffee stains down the front.
It smells like I haven’t showered in days—
though that’s far from the truth.

I tend to do this
with things I love.
I crawl inside them
until I can’t stand the smell.
Until I forget myself.
Until we merge.
Morph.
Mold into one.

But I’m grateful
she still sees
a beautiful human.

For her—
I will remember myself.
I will try to see myself
the way she sees me.
I will be the woman
she already believes I am.

I will still morph
and mold—
but only into things
worthy of the metamorphosis.

I will still wear great sweatpants
and face masks,
because we are worthy
of care.
Of rest.

And I will become
the thing that I love.

She is the one
who showed me how.
And I will follow her lead—
so when her daughter arrives,
she won’t need
to be reminded.

Ambition Isn't Allowed  / Stacy Walker

A cage
Where good girls go
To become successful women,

Where the achievements
Of childhood
Snowball into more
In a flash,

The top student,
Team captain,
Becomes the young leader,
Up-and-comer,
Who can get things done,

Proves herself
By going the extra mile,
Just as her teachers
Reported.

The extra
always earns approval,
comes with accolades
and affirmation,
but leads to
blazing a trail
ridden with hidden weeds
and thorns,

easy to justify
on an untouched path,
convinced it’s only this way
for a pioneer,
not because I’m off track,
lost.

The trek and its sacrifices
Sold as part of the plan,
Worth it for 
A paycheck, a bonus, a title,
The price to pay to get
Where I’m going,

But the further down the path,
The more scrapes and bruises,
Heartache and break,
I see the carrots dangling,
Become a mirage,

My sacrifices were made
For them,
Their approval never served me –
I was its prisoner –
Providing all they needed,
Perfectly packaged up
With a pretty bow.

But once my vision is clear,
The cage can no longer contain me,
Clawing, breaking out,
Beaten and bruised,
In a body that was built
For their approval, too,

Once out,
Freedom,
Searching for a path of ease and care,
Where I seek no one’s approval
But my own,
My body, too,
Is free,
Refusing to be boxed in
To what anyone wants
It to be.