July - Poem 17

Panophile   / Clayre Benzadon

There is an omen
embedded in bread.

Salt on the tongue.
Unhatched belly.

Once I entered
the garage and jumped

from a sudden croaking.
It was a fog-frog, I learned

later, one that half-fades
in shade. When I tried

holding the little guy
in my hands, he slipped

through, like a haunting.
That loaf in my stomach

started to rise. I almost
threw up, until Mr. Faery-

Frog spoke; I almost
completely lost it: “Señor

Frog, how many bites
does it take to get to

the afterworld?”
I asked him.

Mr. Frog addressed
me as panophile.

I asked him what to
make of the focaccia

baking in the oven,
and he said the dead

always arrive warm,
trying to break through

crust. When I tore
off a piece,
the room croaked.

I have salted my
tongue to enhance

its flavor, bring out this
dough’s unearthly mark.

No Poem Today   / RJ Ingram

After Nancy Friedland

I’ve got no poem in me today / No alligator sulking beneath the swampy mirth of consciousness / No waterpark packed with images sliding down plastic chutes & metaphors pissing in the wave pool / The kitchen staff of my mind is clocked out for lunch & everyone’s either on the back patio smoking cigarettes they can’t afford or sneaking sips of schnapps in the walk in & frankly I don’t blame them / It’s hot out it’s July & everyday feels like the world is ending / Not today I told my little notebook & squashy armchair / Not today I bleated at the goats at the zoo who refused me a single greeting or polite chit-chat about the weather / Kim Stafford said his father hated the weight of a blank page / The looming buzz of the white noise radiating with untapped potential / But today I think I’ll keep my notebooks clean & replace the sheets on the bed with a fresh set in solidarity / I’ll roll a pencil on the desk for fourteen minutes instead of writing a sonnet / And still call it a sonnet / I’m not afraid of nothing / After all poetry makes nothing happen anyway.

On Being a Bad Mother, Citizen, Woman / MeraBaird Kuar

Failure is the best option today
I will away the pressure
to report in a timely manner
my manner is defiantly late
but my defiance is whimsical
bellydance, my hips wonder
if they should lie, walk 
a cemented line, ignore
the daily pain that charges 
in the stagnant energy 
if I should knead away the short
circuitry of womanhood 
or should I say motherhood
I wouldn't know, but I will say
I feel like a mother, in my hips
even when my mombrain
forgets my children's names. 

there's this shipwreck / Kes Maro

a short walk from the ferry. it’s peeled back undercarriage gives in
to the rocky shore in an unwanted embrace. rusty skeleton broken

open and warped. where there was once a crew and cargo, i see
a broken jaw, askew and hungry. the weeping metal has washed

the shore in orange dust and glass. billions of pin-sized snails live
in its shadow, drying at low tide. i don’t know

how to hold anything, but i’ve looked down at my own wreckage
and mistaken scattering the broken glass of my body over the shore

as creation. i too have misidentified the shadow of debris as a shield.
the wreck is a sighing beast. our breath caught and escaped at the same

time. how can you forget how to breathe when there is salt in the air?
from here i see a pair of jackdaws balanced on the bow and

a fern like newgrange rises from the caved in cabin roof and even though
the sea is crashing, it’s quiet and the sun is out and like,

it’s nothing

The Hospital Was Never Meant to Be Home / Tammy Smith

The nurses called us girls,
but we were women—
an awkward assortment
of shapes and sizes.

We weren’t supposed to talk
about bodies or weight in group.

I slept better knowing
Myra on night shift wore bright blue
scrubs and never complained
when she crushed my pink-and-white pills,
mixed them with applesauce.

I couldn’t sleep knowing
my roommate, Grace, watched,
jealous of each spoonful.
She complained about her allergies,
wiping her stuffy nose
until the ward ran out of tissues.

Twenty years later,
I still remember
the johnny coat Grace cried inside.
I wonder whether she remembers
the way time dragged
as we sat through group therapy
learning to take turns when we spoke.

Now, trained in trauma,
I shudder when I remember
how I measured myself
against the girl-women beside me—
their skinny arms
tattooed with daddy scars,
grief for dead mothers,
and whatever other wounds
they opened again

during the night shift.

Ode to a Beaver  / Daphne Stanford

On the bank of the Boise River Greenbelt 
in Garden City—upstream from river surfers &
winery patio goers, leashed dogs whimpering 
at kids & couples sauntering by—sat a giant 
beaver grooming his stomach in slow, Zen

scratches, down & across, wet fur gleaming
in afternoon light. He watched the river flow 
by him for a good, long while, taking it in—
oblivious to teenagers with phones flashing 
Snapchats or videos to share, for later. 

Beaver slowly lowered his front legs onto the
bank & pushed himself offshore. Underwater, 
his tail trailed, a flat paddle wide behind in
concentric half-circles spreading outward, 
head atop the surface for one moment 
before descending again, below.