January - Poem 7
Hopecore / Haley Bosse
When I tell the doctor I was exposed to RSV, he puts on a mask.
How I only have to search her name to rewatch Princess Diana hugging AIDS patients.
Knowing that if I get sick someone will hug me.
Knowing that the first time I had Covid, my partner hugged me from behind through a plastic tarp.
The memory of both our masked faces seeding clouds into frigid air.
The hutch of seeds sleeping in the lobby of the public library.
The older man googling how to support my trans daughter in the public library.
Replying All in the Zoom chat: still here!
the erosion / Jess Bowe
it begins before birth. it begins with a name on your back, seventeen stories high, with others just like you, carrying towers of war and legacy strapped and crushing their wings. it begins before your mother’s skin warms to the touch, before your father knows the weight of his own name. it begins before you open your eyes and see clearly the faces that shape you. they spit it out in ink and it begins, this belonging, this leaf on a branch on a tree in a forest in a world. at five, at fifteen, in alphabetical rows. when you marry and make a trade and do the labor of grief alone in your celebratory gown, champagne and sex and promise in your wedding bed. in the government office. in the paperwork. in the whatever-was-established-before-is-no-longer. in the kitchen alone, one night, forgetting what you wanted before you were told what to want. in the let me do that for you, in the late night tears and all the way down to the bottom of the barrel. in the saving yourself for last because you’re a good person. in the fantasy where you chop off the extra weight and your first name stands like an island. in the aftermath, floating on the back of the spirit who will not drown, whispering over her shoulder as an ancient grandmother would: i am. i am. i am, rootdirt still caught in her hair.
I watch cat grooming videos for solace before bed / Joanna Lee
instead of writing. because my
brother is drinking while he
cleans up the plumber’s mess
in his upstairs bathroom while
my dad forgot where he put his phone
and my brother yells at him
for not answering, and he feels bad,
and I make him feel worse by
telling him he should not
indeed tip his phlebotomist
when he goes in for his next
urology appointment and maybe
none of us should talk
on the phone so damn often but
then what would we do but worry?
meanwhile you’re coughing again
through a late dinner and
learning CPR is on my 2026 list but
in truth unlikely to worm its way
high enough into my priorities so
one of these nights in the thin window
we have between dinner prep and bed
some malevolent piece of pasta
is going to lodge itself between
the semi-mobile tissues of your vocal cords
and that will be the end.
all the while the number of emails
I haven’t answered multiply like gremlins
between the hours of four and eight-
thirty pm and I’m sure my to-do today
is lying to my screen-lit face and also
Venezuela and Epstein and ICE and
on this day five years ago we watched
—from a hospital bed—while they
stormed the Capitol and I really
should sleep instead of rousing out
those old ghosts because tomorrow
we’ll be back all smiles and pleasant
for another long winter draught
of hours and like the guy who
comes in from the towing company
for his coffee first thing,
we’re it, baby, getting it done without
a break, without breaking, living the dream,
at least someone’s, I suppose,
one of those who believe
it will all come out in the wash,
maybe, or that drinking more water
will solve all our problems. this to say
it could be worse, and really,
I’ve nothing to complain about, but god
bless that cat whisperer guy on IG.
Online Orders / Thomas Page
after Ocean Vuong
Monday
book on color theory
book on WWII airplanes
bottle of gray, horse-pill-size vitamins
box of chocolate-covered oreos
pair of compression socks
Tuesday
100 count box of alcohol prep wipes
bottle of sherry
100 count box of individual eye drops
bottle of rioja for kalimotxos
bottle of coca-cola for kalimotxos
pair of compression socks from a speciality store
Wednesday
refill on the sky blue pills
refill on the hi-vi orange pills
refill on the hazy purple pills
book on WWII tanks
ticket for an art film showing out of the state
fast fashion wool-ish sweater
Thursday
giftcard to a national movie theater chain
book on Japanese grammar
150 count box of hypodermic needles
medical grade first-aid kit
10 ounce tube of neosporin
toilet bowl hand grips with stand
Friday
refill on white trapezoidal pills
refill on white oblong pills
refill on white flat-circle pills
refill on white round-circle pills
tub of green exercise putty
box of instant Irish oatmeal
Like a Dumb Man Trying to Shout “Fire!” / Sarah Paley
That is how I feel trying to write today.
Something there but it’s like smoke in wind.
I might as well tell you about my grandfather Julius,
the bastard from Bobruisk, aka The Pickle King.
His head was like a misshapen potato and his hair
like a worn-out broom. A master of self-pity and guilt,
with a smile reserved for no one that looked like a boiled
string bean trying to regain its former shape.
Oh, and he was also a crook. As slippery as an eel
preparing for his nuptial journey to the Sargasso Sea.
Julius would have pickled the eel and sold it to the Pope
as if it were the body part of a crucified saint.
Actually, I think he did, and I saw it in a little town near
Assisi when I was young and beautiful as a ripe plum.
Out of Body / Amy Snodgrass
I had another one of those no-drugs-needed
highs on the way to the airport this morning:
I saw a Porsche dealership
shimmer by and lost my mind
floating
my skin
dissolving
hatred for consumerism seething, fear for
my son raging in competition for his heart
and my soul felt like the book cover
of A Million Little Pieces except instead
of clinging to the skin on my hand, all the tiny
spheres floated out into a bluegreen ether
strips of flashing street lights shot across
the dark just enough like stars to deceive
all my pieces floated out I hoped into him,
agnostic prayers of please stay steady on
the thwap of the rubber on the concrete lines
lulled me into such deep and brighter blues
that the hatred and the seething pulled
themselves slowly up like a tired band-aid
then ripped themselves off that last little bit
in a squeal of brakes opening my eyes:
no streetlights
just stars
and the plane
bringing him back, steady floating and blue
