July - Poem 21

A (Brief) History of Salt  / Clayre Benzadon

Salt is as precious
as currency,
 life-essential.

My dad has a habit
of putting salt on food
before even trying it.

My favorite type
of salt is the thick
Kosher coarse beads

that one puts on
soft pretzels (now
all I can think about

is a melt-in-the-mouth
savory tang of enhance-
ment—I throw salt over

my shoulder, draw salt circles
around me…). Biblically
speaking, Lot’s wife was turned

into a pillar of salt as punishment.
Covenant of salt. Salted offerings.
One of my favorite books of all

time is Monique Truong’s The Book
of Salt. My book is titled Moon
as Salted Lemon. I’m thinking

of all the ways salt
      metabolizes,
in our bodies, our lives.

Mother / RJ Ingram

We take shark week very seriously in this town there’s no doubt about that / The young ones pass right through the trials at the tower & then some there’s no doubt about that / Sabrina checks in on me now & then she knows how to see through walls you know / We play checkers between the headstones & the shadows on the walls can tell you everything you need to know about that / I’ve decided to marry the fair headed boy I fell in love with / I wanted to tell you myself & I’m being honest about that / He’s been playing army man with those gentle kids from down the lane / Time has got the better of all of them I guess that’s all I have to say about that / I know how you feel about his second sight / Everything disappoints you I already know all about that / But his kindness is as ferocious as the mice he trains & the floating magnets the Lieutenant uses to jump among the debris of the fallen cities / You already taught all of us all about that / voice you hear in the back of your throat when the cards start singing / My worlds my pantheon of convalescent overlapping vineyards & apple orchards all of that & more. You gave us that. -Erica

And if I am alive by the time you get this
Which I doubt
Please come to the wedding.

Another Chance to Say Goodbye / MeraBaird Kuar

Czechia is a place I can envision
because of your stories, I didn’t take 
the job to learn from my students
it was more to correct the confusion
of my teenage years and the loneliness
I abandoned my home, not because 
I carried your sense of bravery under my tongue
it was a coppery bloodthirst, some spilled
in my cousin’s death, some spilled at my birth
I was looking to bridge the two–but really
it was depression and forgiveness,
assumption and anxiety, it was need 
and an agreement between my parents
that I would switch from one home 
to the other, but I never believe the plot
point is that simple, there’s always more
to the story and I wanted to discover
yours, not at first, not before I met you,
but after I consoled you, dotted with tears
my language all pin-pricked with your
need, and yes, you deserved the hug
and understanding and love, you deserved
to be seen as the girl from Czechia, 
new to this country and state and city
and the home, you wanted to home
and lets not forget the horses, so you
switched homes, and switched homes
after switching homes in a foreign 
landscape, and all three of your brief
mothers took me back to my teenage
trauma, the way they pulled at the heart
on my sleeves and pock-marked it
but I pulled through until my body 
couldn’t thread itself through the needle
any longer, did I split into a thinning thread!
I unraveled for months, unable to recognize
my own children, or anything that life
is supposed to resemble, at least 
that’s what I thought of life, before I saw
how death and mortality masquerade 
in shadow and shushed utterances,
anyway, I left my body and you left 
my country, I had said no goodbyes
nor did I say good mornings to my children
or my husband, he switched roles everyday
as if I was dead. When life allowed my hands
to wrap around it again, I thought of you
wrapped in golden ribbons, not because
of a horse competition, or your return to 
the states to learn at Yale, but because 
you seized so many days, in different countries
and I’ve always stayed in my lane, no matter
how close I get to crossing a border 
I just look over, reach for a hand, but never
traverse to foreign terrain, your domain
becomes more here and there each time
your book is stamped and you skin absorbs 
my sorted sky I recite a poem into
because I never left this side of a goodbye.

The Housewarming Party / Azmia Ricchuito

I wanted to turn
a house
into a home,

tea on the stove
my mother’s recipes
in the oven.

The same stove
that as a child
I was warned
was hot

but I still had to
touch it myself

because it was
the only
way I’d learn;

I had to leave
my fingerprints
on the burner.

I took the trash out
last night
before the end
of the world began;

my demons
kept watch at
my bedside
ever vigilant

while the ghosts
of the past sat
at the foot of
the bed, telling me
bedtime stories
singing soft lullabies
asking me not to

do this to myself
again.

I search the horizon,
but there is no phoenix.

I look down
at my hands.

They are covered
in ashes.

The Unveiling / Tammy Smith

Two cemeteries, two funerals,
two days in a row. Poor Sheldon,
my stepmother sighs,
shrugging her bony shoulders
so high they touch her ears.

I hold her hand as she steps
out of the passenger side
of my rental car.

We’re on the way
to Dad’s unveiling,
but her thoughts
have drifted toward another friend’s
grief. Loss travels like a vagrant
bird.

I spot Dad’s burial plot
by the red flag the cemetery
staff placed there, the same shade
as a summer tanager.

Sheldon wanted to be here—

My stepmother stops
in the middle of her sentence,
staring past me, past the flag,
past a row of graves,
her pale, watery eyes
reflecting the yellow-gold
of the Douro River
she and Dad once cruised—

one of the last big trips
they took before he died
of bladder cancer.

Ah, the irony of a river
glowing at sunset
the color of urine.

That’s a pisser,
Dad would snort-hiss
if he were still here.

To lighten the mood,
he’d probably also joke
about my brother
peeing in our backyard pool
to warm the water
whenever I dipped in my toe
and gasped.

You were so gullible.

My stepmother takes another step,
holding my son’s hand now,
and asks if we would mind
helping her search for the graves
of her mother, sister,
and grandmother.

How many people do you know
buried here?

Only a kid could ask
a question like that,
but I’m dying
to hear her answer,
so I forgive
his bluntness.

Lughnassadh, Almost / Daphne Stanford

Nine days away. Lettuce shorn using
Kitchen shears, not a chef’s knife.

Renegade iron skillets must be 
Seasoned & scrubbed & wiped &

Purveyors of sweet potato latke
& quiche known the proverbial

World over. What does that even
Mean? I imagine it derives from 

The humble classroom globe.
Blue seas & oceans, golden 

Axis, sphere spinning. Not
Unlike a merry-go-round, old-

School style. Triple-dog-dare-
You style. Yukon Golds sauteed

Over a campfire in Seven Devils.
Come September, night air is

Brisk enough to whisk fire 
Into the atmosphere, away 

From the riverbank & tent,
Closer to the constellations.