December - Poem 6
Where does the branch veer? / Kate Bowers
For Kirsten
The last thing to grow on a tree is fruit,
The first dirty thing you will wash before eating,
Discard entirely if worm eaten still alive alive within it or at level just breach breached.
Where does purity dwell or begin,
At front of mouth, back of throat?
The mouth a proscenium?
I have questions about the tongue as serpent, a tie-er of stems,
Seemingly ungovernable yet clearly demarcated,
Its teeth a cage, snapping, a whale at sluice
Its edge unconscious, locked in motion
Opening to the tongue only for air?
food? gossip?
the stride?
The stutter, the pace, the brevity of the area. . .
“Of the fruit of thy body . . .” (Psalm and Psalm again 132:11-12
I once read in The New Yorker
— do not ask me when or where, nor the title, I’ve forgotten it all—
of New York City’s vast underground network of gates and tubes, tunnels almost,
Meant only to be traveled by wastewater out to sea,
Hundreds of miles according to the Sandhogs unfurling them under the bedrock,
How when they stepped away, a group of young boys ignored the yellow caution signs,
the orange cones, the peligro,
Daring each other, laughing, until the taunts moved aside the manhole cover,
one youth sliding in, down
Not even a whoosh or echo,
Not even a splash.
Not even a decent school picture yet
To keep in a drawer.
Merriam Webster:
Middle English purete, from Anglo-French purité, from Late Latin puritat-, puritas, from Latin purus pure
First Known Use
13th century, in the meaning defined at SENSE
Noun and Verb
Middle English, from Anglo-French or Latin; Anglo-French sen, sens sensation, feeling, mechanism of perception, meaning, from Latin sensus, from sentire to perceive, feel; perhaps akin to Old High German sinnan to go, strive, Old English sith journey — more at SEND
First Known Use
Noun
14th century, in the meaning defined at SENSE 1
Verb
1598, in the meaning defined at SENSE 1b
Where does the soul take hold of the body? Where release?
Saturation
The first known use of saturation was circa 1530
Trees Used to Grow Here / Katie Collins
Trees used to grow in this field of ash
But the farmer found their fruit bitter
It was funny
The farmer had seen the strong, healthy trees
and climbed right up to pick the fruit green
The whole grove went ablaze last Tuesday
He plans to start again
But he'll never quite rid himself of the bitter taste
Of unripened fruit
From a tree too young to bear much of anything
I knew the tree and the farmer
I snuck onto his land one night and painted the side of his barn
Trees once lived here
No one else will ever know what it means
But he knows
I hear her sometimes
The way the wind used to rustle through her branches just so
I know it couldn't be her
But I like to think a seed or two survived the fire
Carried by a bird into safer soil far from hungry eyes
6 Chobani blueberry yogurts in the conference room fridge that expire today / Ellen Ferguson
Oh Chobani
You are made in upstate New York
Near one of the state universities.
I felt so close to you
When I set you free
That's sweet of you to say
But we all know it wasn't like that
You love the dairy farm
Or love to say you do
When you left me in the conference room fridge
On my last day
It wasn't a gesture of goodwill
It wasn't anything --
Just an afterthought
Put out to pasture
Like cows you never really loved
But said you did.
Waterways / Chris Fong Chew
- For Ludovico
ribbons of water flow
through the creek slowly
meandering its way around
little waves slowly
eroding at the sediment
one piece after the other
pebble after pebble
sand after sand
debris after debris
a new pathway
is forming in the earth
connecting previously
disconnected bodies
of water that feed
the creek, keeping it
running as the creek
becomes river becomes
delta becomes
sea becomes
ocean / planet
galaxy / universe
dive into a sea of stars
fall asleep to the crashing
of waves as they lap
the shore gently
meandering its way
and sand by sand
pebble by pebble
debris by debris
a new pathway is created
to previously unknown land.
AmTrak’s train stole my voice / Davis Hicks
Not on purpose,
I think.
His is going where he is going,
being what he is being
and has been since before I was.
I just didn’t double-check the compartment,
left behind in the break meant
for stretching legs and
dragging cigarettes.
I don’t smoke,
but I prefer the deep cool breath
touched with the exhales of trees,
backed by the humble-hush of settling metal.
This concrete platform-perch
is the dunes just before
that evergreen ocean.
There is no beaten path to wander towards,
no feel-good pathway towards Walden’s Pond.
But this is the pre-aligned track towards pre-determined
comings and goings,
pre-assigned seating and all.
It is as close as I come
to Chris McCandless’ bus.
I have traveled alone today,
and only while taking that
evergreen wildbreath
did I hope to remember
what I left,
tucked under felt seats
and unfeeling stranger's feet,
and know what is only real
in the sharing.
Father of Mercy / Victor Barnuevo Velasco
I asked Father how he decided on my name.
Take these men, he said, thrusting at me
Charles Martel, Don Juan of Austria,
William Longsword. Lawrence of Arabia.
All bastard sons named by their fathers.
As I was. Because he was hardly present,
I was fathered by words. They took the shape
of men. Their thighs were thick like warriors,
their arms like kings. At night, their hands
combed my hair. I was blessed by saints.
I hugged their loneliness like my own.
In the morning, I am shamed by their pain.
Their mercy was my swords and axes.
Who held their hands when they cried?
Father snapped, You missed the point.
In order to love, they had to be alone.
To live, they had to sever throats and limbs.
They destroyed, he said, so you would earn my name.
Begin again / Jen Wagner
Your actions speak louder than your words.
And though it’s not what I wanted to hear
It is what I needed to heal.
words wielded as weapons in self defense
Of a self image
Another lie you hide behind
We calll it the “good guy”
Calm and sweet on the outside
And we lick and lick until the center is found
Sour and selfish
And tightly wound.
A silver tongued devil
A wolf in sheep’s clothing
Peace and love you say.
but the world ceases to exist
Three inches from your face.
And as long as I stayed close
You would not forget me
And so I clawed and crawled
My way to your approval.
Begging for you to see me
To love me.
To tell me I’m pretty.
But you would never.
God forbid the power tip to my favor.
So instead you entertain others
Because my ego stroking would never suffice
It was too easy
And I was too needy
For want of your time and affection was sleazy
A turn off as it turns out
To have love freely given
By a woman committed
And the weight of that love was suffocating
So I hid it.
And still you ran.
More like a boy than a man.
The rhetoric ridiculous
Unbelievable at best
More likely lies that weighed on your chest
Too heavy to forgive
So you find someone else to begin again.
Gold Star / Stacy Walker
I’ve spent my life chasing
The next accolade
Or accomplishment
That would prove
I had something
To offer.
If I was offered
A gold star
To go above
And beyond
Any reasonable expectation
And achieve
The impossible,
I would jump at the chance
To earn two.
Now, I wonder
If anyone is giving gold stars
For taking the coziest nap,
Or giving the longest,
Tightest hug,
Refusing to be the first
To let go.
I’d wear a gold star
On my t-shirt,
Like my heart
On my sleeve,
For feeling
My feelings,
And another
For voicing them.
I’d take the biggest
Gold sticker
Next to the bright
Red rejection stamp
On a piece of work
I love,
Just for trying.
I think I’ll find
A tiny gold star
And give it to
My heart,
For loving me
Through
The pain,
And into the healing.
