January - Poem 19
Doom Scrolling / Haley Bosse
How many hours of the day am I supposed
to let the soft animal of my body
smash itself against the world? How
does anyone survive more than a single moment
of wet sparks searing across the folding of their brain?
Today, I watched a shrimp search through its horde of tiny stones,
taking each into its mouth and sucking quickly before letting
what couldn’t serve it fall away. Look, I said,
I can even see its heart, searched,
Do shrimp have skin or cartilage or something
else protecting them? Some days, I don’t remember to fear
how much I haven’t seen.
every dream i can remember / Jess Bowe
women washing hats at the stream
at the stone wall, lining hats
in the sunlight, lining men’s
hats in the morning, hats bathed
in river water, hats brimming
and stacked in the morning of war.
tunnels in and out of small white
houses, village tunnels, tunnels
built by women, mapped by mothers,
guarded by traditions of secrets,
elders at the mouth and door
of each tunnel, mountainous hallways,
mud and plastered tunnels, voices
carried, final note of the root
generation kisses the head of each
first note carried through the tunnel
like blood like blood like blood
through the body.
see them from here, top of the hill,
see them from here, dirtied foreign lights,
see them from here, out of sight,
see them from here, no distance
is a safe one, no silence is a favor,
no quiet is without sound,
cars and bodies perpendicular
marking lines of ruin across the map.
the safest place is with each other.
the safest place is with a woman.
the safest place is a covered crown.
the safest place is a tunnel
of mothers and grandmothers
carrying ahead of us torches
and stories our mouths
keep swollen and armored.
North with the wind in the left eye / Joanna Lee
--for Aloka, the Peace Dog, on a successful recovery
toenails click
weary miles
velvet paws
threadbare
asphalt
longings
heart tattoo
quiet
find the path
never lost
furled wagging
to spring
opening
purple tulips
in January—
namaste.
Commiserate / Thomas Page
You’d think that
you’re
the only person on
Earth who has to deal
with the unbearable, crushing weight of another person entire existence
on your
shoulders like the beleaguered Atlas groaning
when the world asked him
to turn winters
into the summers of youth.
You’d think that this is a brand new
experience—a vision of your eternal torment for one sin
like the vole pierced by the shrike
who dared to venture out into the clear day—
pierce your heart
whenever they
ask how you
are doing dealing with everything that is heaped
onto your worn shoulders—
a cynocephalic saint in river water.
You’d think
that you’re as alone as hermits
chasing away golden demons
or silvery promises
whenever you pray
for times like these to evaporate like smoke
from steaming thuribles
swayed slowly
in a rubricked, Roman rite that you
never wish to hear their name as the intention.
You’d think that you say
and drive
far away to a desert resort and sleep
all day in the stale, airless hotel room
and order all day
margaritas
too watery, too full of salt, and too expensive
to justify this personal time to yourself
later.
You’d think that you could sometimes
sleep in after the morning glories open up fully
and birds roost
before the world realizes you’re not dead and buried
able to wash dishes, plates, cups, spoons, and forks
and clean toilets
that are somehow pulpier they were
the night before when you
said
You’d think that you’d be
appreciated for all the work you do around here
especially since
has decided for the both of you that they’re
too busy to help out with the care of
the only one y’all
have left in this cruel world that gave y’all
only two to care
for your whole lives.
You’d think that you’d never
be understood by the rest of the world
because it’s
and expected but never really talked about
in polite society because it’s a downer
to talk about terminal care with those who avoid
their
loved ones who are suffering
before their very eyes.
Sloth / Sarah Paley
Let us now turn our attention to the Sloth
who lives and dies in the trees.
Let us do justice to him.
He is scarce, solitary.
He inhabits remote and gloomy forests
surrounded by snakes.
His neighbors cruel ants and scorpions,
below him swamps and thorny shrubs.
He has no soles on his feet – none.
His countenance wormwood.
Does he ask for our pity?
If he knew our thoughts
he would outstretch his arm.
anxiety / attack / Amy Snodgrass
what what / to Xanax or not to Xanax / what what / coming on / from an inner realm of blood / a volcano or a wave pool / or something else–it’s me, right?–that begins with an unseen shift / a subtle rumble / tumbles then shakes something loose / something / what what / is wrong with me / I’m scared / what what / to know / to not know / spoon crashes / ringing in my ears / silence ringing no / silence bouncing off membranes / sending that shudder / its neuron push / and go / what what / and go on / do it / remember / standing there by the bench / by the Charles / then again / under the Bluff Park overpass grasping the chainlink / walk walk away / pounding the road / walk walk / fall / curling on the kitchen floor / just a two-liter Sprite / what what / cool tile / for days / yeah but Susan Sontag / and Lorelai Gilmore / and Joan Didion with her migraines / all get me and that’s / what what / I need / to feel ok / when I get the what whats / what what please just / get me
