July - Poem 12
Late Summer Instructions / Clayre Benzadon
-after William Carlos Williams
Even now, the last peach
on the tree feels like an
incarnation of William
Carlos Williams reaching
out to warn the picker of
WCW’s excessive juiciness,
his ice box cold crystalline
core. Let the ice thaw in
summer, clingstone or free-
stone. Let the body of fruit
sway in slices. When WCW
plunked down onto the grass,
the leaves enveloped him
in a shiver of wind. The former
picker no longer holding
such a role becomes fruity
bystander instead. He runs
over, grabs WCW, and holds
him in his hands, peach fuzz
tickling them. The peach speaks
to him: “So much depends…”
“In summer, the song
sings itself.” “That which is
possible is inevitable”.
Games To Play Instead of Hangman / RJ Ingram
1 Racquetball / Offer it but don’t mean it & don’t get upset if its selected / A good compromise if it comes down to it
2 Tic-Tac-Toe / Not a great game but if you’ve got the tools for Hangman you’ve got the stuff you need for this step in the wrong direction / Don’t recommend it but it’s definitely an option
3 Wet My Whistle / Each player takes a drink when they skip ahead retelling the plot on a agreed upon novel / Also known as the book club game & fun without alcohol but may still cause the hiccup
4 The gods don’t agree / You’re buying time for what? The red demon waved his hand / Hangman is perfectly appropriate under the circumstances
5 He plucked a live one from the river & hung the ghastly head from a hook dangling at the end of a chain /
6 The severed head sang out I’m thinking of a seven letter word for death & if you get it I can walk home free.
My Five Year Old After Learning of Javeayah Harris / MeraBaird Kuar
Is God a place, she asks and I recall the route I take paved with pain, desire and need, the culmination of connected dots, a picture pixelated and titled, gluten free, dairy free, the capsaicin giving my belly sparks, don’t know yet if it will bite, and so we take this gulp of security, collecting saliva to wash down the aftertaste, in this place I have a nostril blockaded, the other flooding with blood, and there are millions of ways for us to perish and be perishing, an apricot for anchored whimsy and an english embed, watermelon for waived utopia, tangerine for a strip of grounded sun, brown sugar for the swallowed idealizm, a bit of water just to push it through, cells drink up realism, like spirit gulps the sacred.
only four and five
mountain of pink balloons
out the car window
I've Earned My Morning Glory / Azmia Ricchuito
Last night
my bones were tired.
Not enough calcium;
weight-bearing exercises recommended.
Doesn't the doctor know
my restless bones
have carried the weight
of multiple universes
across their lifetimes?
They remember death
hurtling through space
supernovas dying
detonating
volatile and mercurial.
My bones are not weak.
They have survived
millennia
and landslides.
They are a
champagne supernova
in the sky.
Don’t Allow Your Fears To Destroy You / Tammy Smith
Don’t allow your fears to destroy you,
no matter how quickly they spread—
rampant, windswept
across fertile fields—
remember how wild
their reach, how high
and endless their climb.
Watch them twist
through tangled roots.
Imagine their relentless pull,
their putrid stench—
Don’t let them block the sun.
Don’t let them flood your last patch
of black-eyed Susans.
After “The Death of a Moth,” I Write a Villanelle / Daphne Stanford
Before a moth could fly toward flambé
In which its wings ignited bright but slow
Dusty triangles shiny with gold lamé
After Annie fished Lake Pend O’reille
She might have sailed the Puget on a bow
Before a moth could fly toward flambé
But timing’s always funny, in a way:
Cuckoo clock hands chime & shadows grow
Dusty triangles shiny with gold lamé
Before a moth could fly toward flambé
Bakers of Puget Sound would toss their dough
Dusty triangles shiny with gold lamé
Neither Crepes Suzette nor brandy want to stay
Aflame before knowledge of where to go,
Before a moth could fly toward flambé
Dusty triangles shiny with gold lamé
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