July - Poem 23
Conjugating Rain / Clayre Benzadon
-after Agha Shahid Ali
How many times can I ask for you, raining pain?
Too often, I’d preserve remnants true to raining pain.
It wasn’t acid, but every time it hit me, I knew I would get sick.
You brought me to bed, tucked me in, knew raining pain
was a spell that could kill me if I spent too long under it.
I ran over hills with my back to the world, blue, raining pain
inside my legs like needles stabbing me senseless. I yelped
like a dog, you massaged my calf, my phew after raining pain
stopped me from oxidizing my skin. Today I might finally die, I told
myself. Clayre, you’ll overcome this, even if you must shoo (away) raining pain.
Did you feed the girls? / RJ Ingram
To whom was I supposed to feed the girls? / There are no monsters under the bed no rotary phone screaming about check declensions / We fought an honorable man over treacherous moral failings / Tailpipe potatoes & the feet of a dozen rabbits drying on the clothesline getting ready to be swapped a trade shows for fresh pretzels covered in flakey salt / We don’t even use the bad man’s name in this house anymore / Can’t stop the screens from peeling or stop the sans serif fonts from taking off their patent leather pumps / What Garbage Pail kid are you? / I got the molten lava flourless chocolate cake again I’m so predictable! / She looked out the window & pointed & asked “what’s that?” / I had to basically explain the whole Star Forge to the woman who invented it / It’s like a kaleidoscope that collects the starlight from a thousand suns & bends the material we call Sky Armor / Catch a falling star & make it run a million laps / And the Star Forge can bend enough metal to dress an entire outfit / But metal bent in such corrupt ways curses the user which only deters those tied to humanity as a bevel.
5:45am / 5:45pm
Death is Humanity’s Plotting Sister / MeraBaird Kuar
with lines by: Ada Limon, Jericho Brown, Tracy K Smith, Joy Harjo, Natasha Trethewey, Evie Shockley
Didn’t that bare square ask to be played
After the birthing of bombs of forks and fear
chorus of a whispery blues. She has decided to live another day.
on our return, over the net of eternity thrown out for stars.
And all but ferried to her lips, I could see
Trail markers for those coming behind us on
Like blind birds, palms empty
Always a question
Will poetry change the world, no one asks
her cold corpse down upon this little plot of earth.
How it smacked of all that had grown slack
someone will take your picture:
high and fevered above us, winter coming to lay
by my spine afterward. So I sang and sang,
outline / Kes Maro
shriveled onions on the gas stove top.
cat litter collecting under the window
’s corner. three pieces of cardboard re-
-cycling with cat tooth punctures. mold
growing under the bathtub’s unsealed
caulk. a coat of dust on top of the metal
lamp. at least three centimeters between
the baseboard and the wood floors. a tube
of lipgloss wedged between said baseboard
and floors. blue, orange, red, and white
ceramic broken ashtray on the fire escape.
illegal grill on the roof. the cracked freezer
drawer. the impression of my body in the
graying white carpet. crime scene cat out-
-lines left in shed fur on the couch. rice
noodles stuck under the drain catch’s lip.
a white cast heat ring on the kitchen table.
The Forest Knows Your Name / Azmia Ricchuito
I keep looking out the window
at the trees, reaching for the sky,
their branches, scratchy and rough
touching Heaven,
whispering to God.
I’ve looked for Heaven
in the depths of hell
and I’m still searching.
I want to tell the trees
and the crows
what you did.
The mycelium
spares no one.
There is a
buried language,
older than memory,
older than
inherited wounds
and fresh cuts,
that belongs to the trees,
and I long for their
giving embrace.
The way their branches
tenderly held me
as a child.
I am
no longer a child
but still carrying
the scar tissue
of loss.
When I’m surrounded by
a garden of stones
six feet under your feet
will I become part of this
wood-wide web?
I told the trees and the crows
what you did.
To My TBR Pile / Tammy Smith
Stacked high on my nightstand
beside my queen-size bed,
spine against spine,
titles tingling
like lovers spooning
before the devouring.
I can’t wait to get my hands on you,
feel your softness in my lap
or resting against my chest,
like a cat purring.
So many novels,
poems, short stories
demand my attention.
Have you heard me
compare a bookstore
to a candy shoppe?
Rows of warm, gooey,
mouthwatering samples to taste.
All those quasi-complaints—
I really shouldn’t.
I don’t need them—
melt faster than milk chocolate
in the middle of July
when the girl behind the counter,
in a faded college t-shirt
and tortoiseshell glasses,
rings up my purchase.
“How much did you splurge this time?”
My teenage son rolls his eyes
whenever he catches me
hugging a book.
“Mom, why don’t you just
go on a date?”
In Your White Heaven Dream / Daphne Stanford
The walls of your bedroom are painted
In a pale lavender shade of white called
White Heaven. On the stereo, Japanese
Psych rock band White Heaven croons
About “The Look of Love,” and surely
That must be what this is: hazel eyes
Watching mine as I come; the waiting
For it; the coy upturn at the corner of
Your mouth; the daylight fading, slow.
