July - Poem 26
Roadside Litany / Clayre Benzadon
Along the road-
side, wildflowers
for miles.
Butterfly weeds,
Jack-in-the-pulpit,
Pink Evening Prime-
rose. I take a yellow rain-
coat out of my glove
compartment, pull over.
If I walk too close
to edge, I’ll slip in these
shoes. I was hoping
to find bees and butter-
flies in the middle
of rain. Feist’s “I Feel
it All” plays in my head,
and now, I feel even
younger than usual.
Tomorrow, I’ll go out
in my wrinkly raincoat
again, but this time bring
along a magnifying glass.
I’ll find surprise, perhaps
a caterpillar or beetle chewing
through the leaves. I’ll find
comfort in the after-rain
space, feel lighter as I stumble
along the road-
side, wild.
The Empty Stables Of Fuchsia City:
Historical Landmark / RJ Ingram
Janine freed the caged animals of Fuchsia City / She put an end to leash laws & psychological cruelty / When it was Janine’s turn to pay the check she’d slam a dagger into a deck of cards & bet against the hearts / Janine turned the hunting & poaching facilities into a nature preserve / Welcomed every drippy case from inky salamanders to baby nurses who have lost the stones they care for in their kangaroo pockets / Janine covered her whole city in a swamp to drive the locals out & her gambit worked / She was all alone in her ninja jammies between cases of Pinkenberry & Pokerus with the rhinoceroses when a knock awoke her to Sabrina on the threshold / Carrying her lavender foxcat through the endless trials of Victory Road / Swamp weary but ready to talk Sabrina cut the chit chat as was her custom / The facts were Erica was killed & something was controlling her either from the other side / Or within her / A Schrodinger’s Sister / Either already cursed or about to be.
Founded 1996 years after the train last stopped here / See More?
Lineage / MeraBaird Kuar
You don’t need a reason to come over
the porch is damp, the ants are busy
I clip sweet potato greens and red clover
I give you the biggest cucumber easy
to do, but not simple, anxiety rivers
around, I must measure up to whoever
gave you the best cucumber you've ever
you give me 3 tvs in one day, the water
pressure has improved but I’m still
afraid to drink from the tap, there’s fever
going around, pain on the roof of my mouth
a new baby has joined the family,
I don’t ask her name, they don’t need
names yet, not until they come over
all the way, to the living and bring us
a little over to the river of the womb again.
invest in plastic futures now ! / Kes Maro
when there are no more
maple trees & wild
strawberries. no more
moose, black bear, deer. no
more wild flowers or
honey bees, and clean
water. it will be
us & mosquitoes
blood hungry. we will
sit in our limbless
plastic glory, sex-
-less & my lips will
not move but i will
say to you, darling,
its not the end of
the world, not yet.
RIP Kurt Cobain. You Would Hate 2026 / Azmia Ricchuito
Is anyone else
tired of dreading
tomorrow?
The guilt of American
gluttony
is all-consuming.
I have food,
clean water,
a roof over my head—
who am I to struggle
with so much sadness
when people would kill
for my life?
I understood Kurt Cobain
when he wrote,
“the sad little, sensitive,
unappreciative Pisces,
Jesus man. Why don’t
you just enjoy it?
I don’t know!”
Am I also just
an “erratic, moody baby”?
Or am I, too,
incapacitated
by a burning,
nauseous stomach?
There is so much
to be sickened by—
American dollars
committing genocide,
the obscene luxury
of looking away.
Misery loves company,
so why am I
so alone?
Tonight, I’ll do
what everyone
who hates tomorrow does:
I’ll try to sleep well,
but probably won’t.
I’ll ask God
for forgiveness
and try again
in the morning,
as if somehow
things will be different.
Mageirocophobia / Tammy Smith
I never learned to cook.
My mother never taught me,
never prepared me
for ordinary living.
Growing up, my family’s meals arrived
in folded white cartons
with wire handles
or Styrofoam boxes.
Delis passed for diners.
Pizza Hut was our family’s village.
It took me years
to discover what foodies
already knew:
Mickie D’s and IHOP
hardly count
as eating out.
I still don’t know
how to peel vegetables
or cut fruit
so it looks pretty,
respectable—
dainty and delicious,
arranged on a platter
when company comes.
I rarely turn on the stove,
even less the oven.
I’m afraid I’ll start a fire,
burn everything
I’ve worked so hard to build—
another rock bottom.
Now I take Wegovy,
the highest dose,
to curb my appetite
for everything sinful
and forbidden.
Still, I crave
what my mother never gave me,
what she never taught me
to make for myself.
Who knew something
as simple as kitchen smells
could sharpen
into stomach pain?
It would be easier to lie,
to claim I have allergies,
than to admit
I am terrified to cook—
and even more terrified
I will gain back
everything I lost.
Letter from La Piscine / Daphne Stanford
In which Jane Birken seduces an older man without meaning to, or perhaps she did, who can say who is prey, predator, conquest, angel—what is an angel, anyway? A construct? Figment of the cosmos? Oh, aren’t we all cosmologists, now? Jellyfish, tentacle, poisonous even after death. Mortality only contains so much before smarting, after the venom grips quadriceps, hamstrings. Close your eyes, plug your nose. Hold your breath. Keep holding. Underwater, all is silence.
