June - Poem 10
Eldest Daughter / Kristina Byas
And now that you’re at ease,
I can finally breathe.
But
only after I’ve tired
only after I’ve cried
only after I’ve bled out,
cut so deeply,
yet completely
unnoticed.
And by then,
I’ve made room for all that has
settled inside the wound.
People call it strength,
mistaking this scar tissue
for skin,
for me.
After Our Father / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson
After this manner therefore pray ye: Our Father which art in heaven,
Hallowed be thy name.
10 Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven.
11 Give us this day our daily bread.
12 And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.
13 And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil: For thine is
the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever. Amen.
to our elders / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason
I had to explain to a room full of doctors, some of whom had seen the ghosts in 1981, that AIDS was first known as GRID – one looked at me dead in the eyes & I gave him back my dead eyes as he said, that’s not something I’ve heard of – Gay Related Immunodeficiency. I could have made them more uncomfortable & told them that it was also known as the 4H disease – Homosexuals, Haitians, Heroin addicts, Hemophiliacs – left the room full of cakes & cokes a lot less polite. I could have been a complete bitch & let them know it was called the gay plague – what would a room of doctors born after 1998 have done with that? I could have told then I was in kindergarten when Ryan White died of AIDS & the kindergarten teacher tried at soft & tender about boy, who looked a lot like our older brothers, explain how & why he died, then our parents still whispered fag beneath their breaths. I could’ve told them the song they compliment coming from my office – The Stone Quilt – is the same quilt laid out on the National Mall the last time it was all of it – each piece was the size of a grave – the stones for the ghosts – the mass grave of combusted futures. I could have told them that my mom, so sensitive she worries she isn’t watering her plants on time, said, No, we didn’t lose a whole generation, just look around & I’d find my elders & she showed me lesbians & men long closeted & ghosts. I could’ve sung The Beauty & the Beast like a dirge – lyrics birthed from Howard Ashman, dying of AIDS, but living through art – pushing to see a final rough of his work in his hospital bed – not yet his deathbed – hearing his voice arise from the clicking ether of a film roll, knowing he still had work to do on Aladdin, which he’d never finish. I could’ve thrown up on that projector the jacket IF I DIE OF AIDS - FORGET BURIAL - JUST DROP MY BODY ON THE STEPS OF THE F.D.A. I could’ve slammed my See You In Hell Ronald Reagan jacket, beaded with fire, over the cake & waited for questions. I could’ve cited statistics – doctor’s love statistics – approximate death tolls between 1990 & 1995: 30K to over 60K – 1990 & 1991: Infection rates 80K each year – but all this is approximation when numbers become more than can be seen in a gymnasium. I could’ve screamed about less poetry, less guttural laughs, less arthouse horror, less parents, less glass-smashing trans women raging for rights, less children. To them it’s a scary story to tell in the dark. I was just old enough to see my hometown’s gay bar torched in the deep dark of the night as there were no patrons to protect it. I was drowned in precognitive grief & only felt gossamer slips. Yes, I’m a coward because instead I showed them clips of kids learning about Howard Ashman. I didn’t force them to learn about these dead unionized through the way they died & not how they faced it. I could’ve told them AIDS’ data collection’s only 45 years old, but AIDS is older, the other disease is worse & older still.
SHOULDER / Shane Moran
Sold! The agent slaps the red words on her own face, and I can’t
Help but smile at her on such a beautiful day when my
Only pleasure is walking and criticizing the designs and
Unbelievable waste of the houses on this block.
Looking too long will make me pull out my phone begin
Discussing a ten-year plan with a chatbot on how to
Either to win a house or convince someone to leave me one—
Reiterating that dinking might be the only way I can buy one before 30.
Marbles / Jingyu Li
Time after time I dreamt of marbles,
first the clinking of them
in their transparent bag, then their scattering
and my mother’s voice to keep them close,
lest one roll under the coffee table.
Back then my sadness was unmoored,
back then instruction meant someone
else knew better and that I was safe.
Mother was good at flicking one marble into
another, drawing a thin line
with her pinky. Losing was an art
in staying small. I was bad at marbles and
checkers and chess and that’s how I could sleep
at night. Then I began winning, then all
the marbles gathered in my palm.
Then I was good as dead
and had to let all of them go.
Air plant / Stefanie Zito
I’m like the air plant
hanging in the balance
of the looking glass
seeing everything from
an encased perspective
determined arms, twisting
reaching toward the light
curves punctuated by
spikes pointing every direction
wanting to follow them all.
Fitting right in with a
versatile vibe
low maintenance ways
adaptable and hardy
contained
constrained
exposed.
Soil depth is what I’m after
commitment to place
a tap root to sink
beyond all this yearning.
I’m coming in for a landing.
