December - Poem 5
Giant Amateur Baby Born at Ketone Safari/ Kate Bowers
Imagine the world outside your lens,
The many ways of going and doing
Beyond the ant farm and how it would be
For them if the glass were to crack,
The sand filled with thoraxes and abdomens, siphoning out softly
In studious measure onto the Persian-fringed floor,
Wisping and with a low whistle akin
To a long sigh from a debutante confined
To a library there looking out on a rain-filled day
As she lies couched, her broken ankle un-danceable, propped
And laced with comfort in the plush throw across her legs,
Partial visions of cushions behind her back low to the rib cage
Bolstering those exhales, each more superlative than the last,
A discarded newspaper spilling down her lap along with a printed
Screenshot of a Web search she had run earlier and had held now
For some time this afternoon, many hours really,
One lens cracked in two across the spectacles
She dangles from her left hand while peering
Over her right shoulder away from the shot, dodging integration
Between the drips, the drabs, the sighs on the window
Into the space where the love of things turns pro
Abdomens and thoraxes continue to march, now across the cracked spectacles
Up her last finger on her left hand then onto her wrist,
Her caramel scent drawing them nearer and near,
Her breath almost a trace,
The smallest sound the wind makes for the ear chimes suddenly hard through her lips:
“If you have a baby, you won’t be the baby anymore.
Breath Control / Katie Collins
When I was a baby, I’d scream like a banshee whenever a stranger would hold me
Good instincts, strong lungs.
Unfortunately, it made the world difficult for my mother.
She tried as best she could to contain my cry, to soothe my sorrows, but even her motherly powers had limits.
The limits were stringed peas, diaper changes, and someone new.
As I grew up, the crying didn’t change much.
If something became too much for me to handle, I would wail wildly.
My mother was no longer always with me. Now, I had to handle my crying alone.
Heads turned, I tried to will away my sobs and their attention, but I didn’t know how.
As an adult, I took voice lessons.
I learned my posture sucks and breath control is a wonderful way to pull your body into focus.
Because if I’m focusing my mind and my breath on sustaining a song, there’ll be none left to screech with.
As an adult, I finally mastered the art of not crying.
I’m not sure if it’s helped me.
Free Cheese Grater, Never Used, See Photo / Ellen Ferguson
Not baby shoes never worn, and yet –
Untouched
Waiting expectantly
Another day passes, night rides a warm pizza
Rumors fly/ this time no doubt…
But no.
Children devour Ratatouille for a birthday,
whiskers, crumbs,
lights flicker
I soar from my shelf, but no.
This time, my family says, they will show their love by letting me go.
Large rocks of Parmesan call me to my window.
Storyline / Chris Fong Chew
Here the sentence is created.
Subject, object and verb connected
by punctuation and infinitives.
Here words are beginnings.
/
Here the sentence is respected
followed, understood, listened.
Here the words hold power.
\
Here the sentence is interpreted
studied, analyzed, read.
Here words contain action.
/
Here the sentence is trusted
believed, loved, and known.
Here words maintain integrity.
\
Here the sentence lies
deceives, and misleads.
Here words are weapons.
/
Here the sentence destroys
demolishes and deconstructs.
Here words turn violent.
\
Here the sentence is misread
distorted, twisted, contorted
Here words become corrupt.
/
Here the sentence is destroyed
Subject, object and verb disconnected
by punctuation and infinitives.
Here, words are an end.
Unemployment is being both the wall-painter and watching it dry / Davis Hicks
There’s no shame in it,
in the waiting.
At least, that’s what I tell my rap-tapping foot,
what I whisper to wilting jitter-jabber muscles
each mumbling back to
get out
Get Out
GET OUT
to vanish as the blooms do,
one pedal at a time.
My fingers ever fight for focus, one over the other,
ongoing struggle for my right even as my left attempts the work it's been given.
They fiddle-fumble with whatever they find,
coins and pens and the rest of us forgotten things.
Their grumble-rumble is echoing back
try it again
Try It Again
TRY IT AGAIN
every single syllable a desperation
about the desecrated truth of stolen time.
They argue with my eyes,
which claim one after another
just stop
Just Stop
JUST STOP
and wish I’d build the den of bears,
would curl into myself and let them
study dreams,
to grasp at reigns for fairy foals
and ride the rings of Saturn.
Even as the body tells stories the soul knows
all too well, tales etched in skin and memory,
in synapse and essence,
I must put it aside.
I must tear physicality asunder,
as the salmon do,
and dare to swim upstream.
My mother, sitting / Victor Barnuevo Velasco
next to boxes,
in a photograph,
smiling at an emptiness
in front of her
that was me.
She seemed happy.
I would have delivered
the boxes myself
but the oceans between us
had expanded.
She, among children
she could not leave.
I, filling up rooms
with their photographs.
I would have opened
the packages myself
and told her how the flour
would make better bread,
that the bedsheets
were for her alone,
and the vitamins
were for her bones.
But I could not remember
if I packed flour or pots
or pillowcases or hair dye.
Each box I sent, I left to her
to decide what to keep.
Each time she asked,
I forgot to write down
the happiness to ship.
Heavenly Bodies / Jen Wagner
Hold my hand.
Let me carry your sword for you as I walk you home.
Tell me…what makes you most afraid?
Tell me everything.
Empty your woes into me.
Let me gaze longingly at you.
As I imagine forever.
Let me hear the sound of your steps.
The way your breath quickens
As we walk.
Side by side.
I want to watch your cheeks turn pink from the sun.
And then I want to kiss you there.
Let the mark of my lips remain.
Red.
And stained.
To let the sun know that you belong to me.
I will not share my love.
Even with heavenly bodies.
Side Effects May Include Quitting Your Job / Stacy Walker
Lexapro was the beginning
Of the end
For my job.
Once afraid,
Clinging to approval
And peace,
That hunger
To please
Now sated by sanity,
No longer starving
For safety.
The desire to comply,
Obey;
Disassociating
To survive,
Now replaced
By a mind
That knows.
Trusts
Itself,
Won’t sacrifice
Itself
For a false sense
Of security.
