July - Poem 8
The Hesitation / Clayre Benzadon
I hold my hand out
to a startled fawn,
a tender imprint in the for-
est (best place to rest).
Clover, berries, acorns.
The fawn hesitates before
she slightly begins to nibble,
nuzzle my hand. My other
hand reaches out to pet her,
but she flinches, jolts, even.
I connect to this creature.
I am slight in response,
fawn in trauma. I nod
my head when I mean to shake
no. I voice ok even if
it is not. Mostly, I’m
silent and paralyzed, like
I’m watching a movie play
out in front of me. Finally,
the fawn trusts me enough.
We both stare at each other
for a moment before she
leaps away and I am left
motionless in the forest,
alone and unsated.
After Patricia Chapman / RJ Ingram
Freeze your accusations & wander do not run / A bespoke vest a splintered cane a hospital gurney & a gun / Revisionists always play back the last three scenes but learn nothing from the retracing / I’ve got another thing to say about that too I’m sure / You invited me over but I’m not going to take off my shoes & I’m not sorry / Although I am sorry about Thanksgiving / Each of them / Stop drinking from both sides of the glass / Keep a pair of gloves in your purse next to the penknife / Cracks in the stereo sound / The pops resemble topographic maps or old fashioned hole punched computer programing / I can’t be sure / There was a ring & then a riot & then a bow around a yellow box / Toast in the yokes.
it was like being a deer / Kes Maro
on a long ridge. you
couldn’t mistake it
for walks home from work
or errands. the angels moved
like they had never heard of moving
on or time healing. they were more
like those oversized deer
on long island, sleepless
without an ordinary habitat,
the bags under their big deer eyes
have a hungry shadow; it estimated
the world owed them attention.
they put the balance in quotations,
unreasonable and still often missed.
this confirmed the angels’ fears
or assumptions that the world has passed
over them. it was almost a comfort
to be right.
If Lil Wayne Was a Life Coach / Azmia Ricchuito
We think that to change our lives
we must do so with grand gestures
that we must rebuild Rome
with a fifteen step
Instagram-ready
morning routine.
“Get ready with me while I
sabotage my life/burn it to the ground
and create an entirely new life
in which I am my ideal self!”
Lil Wayne said real g’s
move in silence like lasagna
and I’ve learned that
lives are rebuilt
in the quiet moments
in the liminal spaces
deciding.
taking a first step.
sending an email.
making a call.
rolling out the yoga mat.
doing things without thinking
before you can
talk yourself out of it
that’s how this poem was written
from a hospital bed at 4 a.m.
because I told myself I didn’t
need to write a masterpiece.
I just needed to show up.
Stupid and contagious;
put some words on some pages.
I can always trash this some other day.
But for now, it’s evidence
I was here
and for a few moments,
I tried.
Notwithstanding, Albeit / Tammy Smith
An Abecedarian
Actually, “notwithstanding” isn’t the only word
brilliant minds like my friend Brian use in casual
conversation. Even my dad, bright enough to
discern the difference between smart and genius, thinks Brian
epitomizes both. I’m flabbergasted they
fail to recognize how pompous they are, pumping their own
gas, quoting Goethe and Wordsworth while washing dishes,
holding their grimy hands dramatically over their hearts,
imitating the faux patriotism they’ve witnessed. I can’t tolerate
jokes about bad grammar when all I really want is to
kvetch about my dad and his annoying habits. But Brian
laughs hysterically and reminds me I’m just like him. I’m not a
man, though I sure as hell work my ass off and sweat like one.
Not for nothing, Brian smells worse than my dad. I nod, my mouth
open, tongue sticking out. “Albeit” was another fancy word I heard
professors in college use when they tried to teach us how to
quote from sources, cite them properly, discuss them. Brian summarized his
research articles using a cheat sheet he designed. So clever,
so succinct, his roommate stole it from his backpack. I caught him
trying to sell it all over campus—one more example of
upperclassmen taking advantage of the system before everyone
vanishes after graduation, tossing their caps into the air like confetti.
“Wait until you’re my age,” my dad tells Brian. “More tests than school.”
X-rays to check for broken bones; colonoscopies to check for cancer.
Yelling doesn’t help. It’s not worth anyone’s time to care anymore.
“Zero effort to stay silent,” says the man who can’t stop speaking—
notwithstanding, albeit, my dad still can’t define decency.
Letter to Captain Jack / Daphne Stanford
Puffin, that is. Captain ‘cause you’re bone-stiff
& weary of gawking ragamuffins snapping
Insta-captures with Los Angeles filters.
Those ornithologists sold me your likeness for
Twenty-five dollars & damned if it wasn’t
the best $25 I’ve ever spent on a souvenir—
though my green feather fluorite sphere is
a close second. Now I almost feel prepared
to commune with los angeles de mi pasado,
though Mom always reminds me, El pasado
ya está pisado. Translation: don’t go back;
you’ve already stepped here; or there, on
that stone, there. Lucky you, tufted sea
parrot who prefers waddles to flying.
Oh Captain, my Captain Jack Puffin,
next time you do manage to catch air
over roped-off nesting grounds &
tide pools, please—take me with you
