July - Poem 16

Butch Baby   / Clayre Benzadon

Wear your carabiner
on your sleeve, err,
pant buckle. Wear 
me like rain.
I don't want to cling
onto you, but your
hard-drawn shoulders
makes it hard for me
to resist. Resistance
is your favorite game.
We play tug o' war
and you win every time,
pulling the rope until
I trip over from friction
and force. You tell me
you feel like a coconut,
 soft on the inside.
Butch baby, I call out
to you:
I don't
buy it.

One Thousand Eight Hundred & Fifty-Two   / RJ Ingram

This game is not for me but alas here I am playing it / This newspaper is not for me but alas here I am skimming it / This website this browser this laptop: again not for me / This room is not for me so I will walk out of it / This building is not for me so I might burn it / This parking lot is not for me so I will get in my car & drive & drive as far away as I can go / This car is not for me so I will abandon it on the freeway / This overpass is not for me so I will wander into the bushes & hope never to return / This field is not for me so I will close my eyes until I’ve left it / These eyes are not for me so I will open them & plant them in the field / This body is not for me so I will drop it next to my eyes / The spirits I pass as I float upwards are not for me so I speed on to the next half baked satellite / This planet I guess must not be for me either / Pshaw.

A Golden Shovel After Declaration by Tracy K. Smith / MeraBaird Kuar

Sleep whips around the world in
twisted detail, gold-plated every-
thing smudged with prints, we stage
our deaths in this way, pillows of 
satin and not-feathers, these
lies hold onto their oppressions
conflicted by the tossing of time, we
don’t remember what rights we have
until they turn to dust, petitioned
by those who re-call what we stand for.

catalog as erosion II / Kes Maro

it’s like this, thistles caught in deep tissue
without tearing. a house fearing it could be
made passage. it makes me unsure that i
belong to the limbs of my body. horsehair
plaster walls flaking, more delicate than just
the day before.        fearing it could be made
      . like i am a frog meant to be a body
of sense. horse hair              delicate        just
      before. a clown with an oil paint face
pressing monoprints to the sidewalk.
          meant to be a body       .       like      
thistles caught in deep tissue       tearing.
              an oil paint face              the sidewalk.
       makes me unsure that i               .              
could be        a      passage. a clown        paint
face                .                caught        without      
.       frog               body      .              paint
        ing        the sidewalk.              or              
.                            body               .                      
            passage.                                          
the day               .              unsure              
belong              s               .                            
t      o              .               thistles              
deep tissue    

A Tony Soprano Summer  / Azmia Ricchuito

Hot girl summer
was all the rage,

but I am
rage personified.

A Tony Soprano summer
in which I remind myself
that someday

the objects of my anger
will be dead anyway.

I got a guy, you know.

The Grim Reaper
spares no one,

and I, like
Kurt Cobain’s
meat-eating orchids,
forgive no one
yet.

My therapist
doesn’t think
we made any
progress.

She’s already
a voice inside
my head.

I’m lounging
in a bathrobe.

The absurdity
of life: it’s like
the regularness
of life is
too much
for me.

I repeat after
Christuhfaaa:

there is no
chemical solution
to a spiritual problem.

There’s no
long-term parking,
either.

E.T., phone home.

Plot twist:

I poisoned
the pond.

Even the ducks
know better
than to call this
home.

A Lesson About Mister Lincoln   / Tammy Smith

I’m surprised to discover
Mister Lincoln is a variety of rose
and not the bearded president.
A spry, silver-haired veteran
wants me to share his passion
for plants. He settles into my dark
crimson office chair, compares it to the deep
velvety petals of a Mister Lincoln,
chuckles about this tall, vigorous shrub
with such a strong presence—oops,
he meant to say fragrance,
but when he doesn’t correct 
his mistake, I let it go.
Six months into therapy, he’s taught me 
how to cultivate grace. I discover how
important a garden is when he asks me 
if I grow my own vegetables, and if I do,
do I know that tomatoes and peppers
bloom until the first frost,
that they’re simple to prune.
I ask him why he loves Mister Lincoln.
He tells me how this rose was bred in 1964
by Swim & Weeks, and he explains why
Mister Lincoln remains one of the finest—
thriving as a foundation
plant—framing the home’s base
and boosting curb appeal. Mister Lincoln 
does need strategic pruning.
Six weeks shy of his eightieth trip
around the sun, tough
enough to survive 
the threats of disease and pests,
brave enough to still bloom.

Summer Road Trip, 1989  / Daphne Stanford

Tucson, Arizona: turquoise pool 
In desert heat. Red clay formations

Shield us from sun on patio chaise
Lounge chairs, beach towels draped

Over them to catch dripping limbs
Hair smelling of chlorine, Sun-In.

It’s today’s Chevrolet on the television
Screen & Mom packed PB & J sand-

Wiches for lunch, along with apple 
slices & Capri-Sun. Sunny D & 

Milk for morning cereal in the 
Mini-fridge. Falling asleep to the

TV flashing, volume low, casting
Shadows onto the walls, our beds.