July - Poem 2
Writing on Company Time / Clayre Benzadon
Truth is I wrote this
at work. The trouble with
poetry is that you can draft
it anywhere. Once, I scribbled
a love poem on bar napkins
while drinking over an ex.
Next thing I know,
the poem’s plastered on
a huge billboard, so that even
my ex can read it. Poetry’s this
lucrative, I laugh as I take
this statement in like my last
swig of whiskey: neat, chillingly.
The point of a poem is to remember.
In my office, I tune into Dolly’s wisdom:
Be your own boss, climb your own ladder
You keep working, working, working […]
The question is, what work do I need to do
to become my own boss? Is it another
poem, or something more abstract, ill-
egible? Tomorrow, I cried, I’ll be a better
employee. For today, though, I’m in charge
of finishing this last line.
I did not use the internet to write this poem / RJ Ingram
I am going to spend too much money on an ice cream cone when this poem gets rejected / I am going to slice through a watermelon & press the panini so hard I’ll be forced to turn it into croutons when this poem gets rejected / I’m not afraid of sparklers bc they die out & I’m not applying to lead the choir / I’m just trying to be a better father to my husband’s plants & I promise I will read it to them when this poem gets rejected / I will sing to them on their deathbeds & bury their remains in the slumberyard / I will smash a watch with a mallet at the end of a tight five & tell the audience I will see them next time when this poem gets rejected / I will invest in a ride bracelet at the amusement park & wear it until the periwinkle plastic fades to a muted gray / I will buy myself another ice cream cone & practice my whistle when this poem gets rejected / I will interrupt my father but only when he tries to explain football to me / And I will ask him But who’s on first? When this poem gets rejected / I will try to hold my potty break for intermission & I will sneak out a couple minutes just before / And I will say isn’t this thrilling? To the geese crooning in the park when this poem gets rejected / Here I got you something RJ I say to myself as the kettle whistles & sand runs down the bulb / And hand myself a scoop of red velvet macaron with licorice ribbons: A parting gift just a little treat for when this poem gets rejected.
Prompt 7.1: What is your Ben & Jerry's flavor? RJ Equalitea [Red Velvet Macaron with Licorice Ribbons & Pieces of Candied Anise]
The Morning I Called For a Wellness Check / MeraBaird Kuar
We don’t eat food that lingers from the table to the sink,
that spills into the living room, onto the front porch,
that makes lines of demarcation between the eyebrows.
Being human today meant standing in the heat outside
the gate of the woman who told the neighborhood app
I was suspicious because my backyard was fenced,
but that was years ago. Today her door is open but I can’t
see inside the dark opening, like a gap-toothed grin obscuring
the grooves in the gums that will be an adult smile, yet hinting
at something lying in wait. Did she yell help, who is there with her?
I hear mumbles grow wider as I float on a string away from
and closer to, what do I do? I ask her questions that bubble up
from the spring, I don’t use my phone to conjure heart,
I use it to call the authorities and I disappear a few yards away
onto my porch, where my children wonder what adult novel
is writing itself, what bit of life is dying on a burning ledge
called mortality. I blow the wick, I see the waves waft down
the street. People pass, and ask and inhale and swallow
the day, hoping it stays down & digests into the juice of tomorrow.
without you and me / Kes Maro
’re always in blue
mirrored sunglasses
flipping horseshoe crabs
& cutting out wood-
-en bunnies with a table
saw. always a handful
of pistachio shells empty
on the table next to .
’re always sitting
in that chair. ’re always
cradling that horseshoe crab
just above the waves & showing
her legs. ’re always
asking why the bunny
has red eyelashes & elephant
feet. ’re always
making pancakes on a griddle
on a green linoleum counter
& telling to add blueberries.
’re always taking a nap
in that chair. ’re always
wearing a yellow hat.
’re always yelling
up the stairs at a different kid.
’re always going
into the basement to get
something. ’re always
saying don’t step on the crack
’ll break my back. ’re always
in the parking lot at the beach
& never on the beach unless
’re in the water
up to r ankles when
the tide is out like this
it’s like & could
walk across the long
island sound on crossing
sand bars & never
get our knees wet.
My Bloody Valentine / Azmia Ricchuito
When I was born, they said I didn't cry.
I suppose after nine months
tethered to your umbilical noose
sharing a body that
never felt like home
That I'd long realized I was wasting my breath
with complaints.
Complaints are for the living.
Mourning belongs to the living.
And I was born
somewhere in between.
There was a part of me
abandoned in utero
before I ever took my first breath
like a song left off Nevermind.
An afterthought, a footnote.
Who listens to parasites, anyway?
My father hated the parts that were just like my mother
because she was never satisfied.
My mother hated the parts that were just like my father
because his temper could make even an angel cry.
I learned to stop crying
before
anyone
could give me
something
to cry about.
Long before my precocious ears heard
the empty threats
of generational curses
from cycles my grandfather broke.
He showed me the moon
through a telescope
and asked me if I thought
we were alone on this rock in space.
He taught me
How to laugh.
How to sing.
How to ride a bike.
How to love.
How to read.
How to write.
It was in the pages of my childhood diary
that I first learned how to cry.
When he died,
on a day dedicated to love,
I screamed until my throat bled,
the moon watching in silence
as I cried alone.
V a n i s h i n g P O I N T S / Tammy Smith
Since it’s no longer my fault
I’m FAT or that fads
keep changing (theory & practice) the way
I l o o k
at: pills pens pinpricks promises potential
ingest inject introject interrupt ideology
sacred scripts
in BOLD BULLETS
sublingual. slips of the tongue religiously
a weekly shot between breaths—watching
sweaty layers of scarred flesh
shed peel unfold
as inches disappear
Letter to David from a Datsun Wagon / Daphne Stanford
High school, driving foothills, boombox in
back, blasting Jareth’s lament: Everything
I’ve done, I’ve done for you. Of course, Sarah
refused to accept her assigned role of
Goblin Queen. Thigh gap, acid-washed
jeans: But it’s not fair! Clock hands chime 13.
You say that so often: I wonder what your basis
of comparison is? Down in the underground,
Jareth sought shelter among goblins.
Gnomes chuckled, briefly–shame blushing
your cheekbones. Helping Hands lowered you
down tunnels, toward a daydream not unlike
Alice’s Drink me teacup. Don’t mind if I do.
