June - Poem 12

A Study in Perception / Kristina Byas

I wonder
what lives in the shadows between
your light and dark,
beyond the halo you wear with pride,
atop the horns you hide.

One-sided Portrait of My Father / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson

Dad always smelled strongly of cologne. He wore horn-rimmed glasses and a thick mustache. His legs were thick. On Fridays when Ma worked late, Dad would take our orders and come back with what we wanted from McDonald’s. He liked to lay around in scoop neck t-shirts and tighty whities. On the arm of his chair, the remote control was permanently perched like a stuffed a bird. Dad always complained if asked for money, but he gladly bought those expensive sneakers when I was on the basketball team. Dad would start water fights in the summer, turning the hose from the car to us kids without warning. He’d chase us around the yard and even spray Ma if she stuck her head out the backdoor. Dad named himself the “Ribologist,” called all his friends, “Doc” and me “Sweet Pea.” In the middle of dinner, he would stop everything to tell a joke. Usually, he was funny. Dad packed us into the van in the early hours of the morning to take us on vacations. He drove us to the White House, Disney World and New Orleans before the levees broke. Dad read to us every Christmas Eve. He had a tape recorder, and he’d gather us together to sing. There’s a picture of me in a pink taffeta dress sitting on Dad’s lap and crying. In the photo he’s got his arms wrapped around me, and if I didn't know better I'd say he's cooing, “There, there. It'll be alright."   

poem with section titles from Control (2019)  / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason

PUSH THE FINGERS THROUGH THE SURFACE OF THE WET

     ● I rise into the air with a hook

     ● A chain gentles through my sternum

     ● The wing fells into the porched arch of my lower back

     ● The chant of heaven emerges from my mouth

     ● A rain curves around my form like a magnet

– one arm curves into my fascia of song

WE STAND AROUND YOU WHILE YOU DREAM

     ● Such blood of sleep seeps down on my brain

     ● My tumor of a dream pulses red light

     ● My longing for all these hands too cool

     ● It’s hunger ices its anger, its oil

     ● On water, I want to wake and arch

– one leg curves against this fascia in song

THE WORD THAT DESCRIBES THIS IS REDACTED

     ● We grasp like simple objects in ordinary diners

     ● We long to sleep at the Oceanview motel’s liminal space

     ● In the door with the Triangle, we’re missing keys and search for them

     ● Hissing keeps me awake at night like the mouth of Heaven

     ● We can’t pinpoint resonance outside each door while we try to wake

– one finger curves into my fascia against the song

WE BUILD YOU TILL NOTHING REMAINS

     ● I can’t lower from the sky anymore

     ● & I’m not afraid of the red of my blood

     ● & I’m embracing the blue of my blood

     ● & I’m excited by the white of my teeth

     ● & I’m excited by the groundlessness beneath me

– one tongue curves into my fascia song

THE HOLE IN YOUR ROOM IS A HOLE IN YOU

     ● I refuse to hear anyone else’s “I love you”s

     ● I refuse to leave myself & mine

     ● Room in me, I use your pull

     ● Hand me down from the issue height

     ● Unused, I love my throat, my might, my ecstasy

– my body curves with fascia in my song

SHOULDER  / Shane Moran

Say you could change anything about living—I
Hope it wouldn’t be to go back to the
Old world. I don’t know      why       this obsession.
Uteruses are rarely on my mind. And when they are, bringing
Life into the world is not my concern.   You agree,
Delegating your release of all that unwanted you carry
Everywhere, to the womb of a stranger is a
Retreating.   I’ve been more into High Speed Rail.

Grief Umbrella / Stefanie Zito

It’s cumbrous and awkward, and
I don’t always have a place for it.
After all, I’m holding too much. 
My arms are sore and
I miss you in them. 
I wasn’t ready to receive
this weight passed my way
but now it sticks with me 
wherever I go, so
I wrap the folds neatly 
when I can, binding and 
minding myself
velcroing them closed.
I grip it, clutching memories
taking a brave, weary step
leaning on the steadfast echos of you 
through this landscape of loss.
Grief expands and hovers 
on its own terms.
It used to be you going with me,
a trusty companion
a canopy to shield.
Now the wind catches
my unwieldy woes. 
What good is an umbrella 
when soaked in my own tears?