June - Poem 14

Bag Lady, Reconsidered / Kristina Byas

Three receipts,
one for gas,
one for matcha,
one for a version of myself
I no longer recognize.

A tube of lip balm,
worn down to the shape
of unsaid words.

A pen
that only works
a few letters at a time,
stifling me.

Two hair ties,
one broken.

A wallet,
with too little money
to buy me the happiness
people say it can’t.

Hopes spilled at the bottom
with loose ibuprofen
and breath mints.

Fear jammed in the zipper pocket
so it doesn’t find its way out
without my permission.

And resilience,

in case it does.

In All My Dreams My House is the One I Grew Up In IV / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson

In All My Dreams My House is the One I Grew Up In IV
In one dream, my father punched a hole in the wall
In one dream, I cried on the phone to my friend
In one dream, the cat was trapped in the chimney
In one dream, we sat on the porch while it rained
In one dream, the neighbor threw a rock through the back window
In one dream, the belt jolted me awake
In one dream, my brother accidentally drank bleach
In one dream, the house moaned like it was haunted
In one dream, my mother said she was leaving
In one dream, my brother’s friend kissed me on the lips
In one dream, a mouse ran over my foot
In one dream, I licked all the stamps for the bills
In one dream, the ghost said to get dressed for bed
In one dream, I died and came back as a bird
In one dream, the clock fell off the nightstand
In one dream, it lightninged but there was no thunder
In one dream, we fought and broke the front window
In one dream, I dreamt it was all just was a dream

 the capybara in the hot spring that is the center of the black hole  / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason

this is a provable fact, so perhaps
if we sink it into that hot spring
space, bulleted with the holes of stars,
place a little tangerine on our head,
like that celestial capybara,

citrus scents permeating
the unknown matter of space –
tangerine rinds falling
over our anxious selves,
nebulae of exploded stars ballooning out
or condensing, miraculously down, 
to make new stars, to set on our brow,

and rest,

we could be as content, as wondrous,
in a moment that a black hole can stretch out forever
with our small souls and this being beyond
all space and all time – simple and complex
as a tangerine, as a hot spring,
as a sleepy capybara –

the universe cooling and ever-expanding.

PENIS / Shane Moran

I can’t imagine a more useless skill 
than making love without the recklessness 
of oversharing in the mutual delight of stressed 

blood grunting out foreheads and the pumping 
of bulging veins in and out a hug from the inside. 
This is how a legacy is born, the spoons 

of just showered bodies against a sink—
eyes squeezing and widening to the same pulse 
of our breathing, and the rhythm of our thrusts.

Aphrodite’s song was the moonlight dashing 
across my lover’s lips in the dark, cold tile bathroom 
of our old Hartsdale apartment. The shower window 

half open, we could hear the rain, the flick and hiss 
of a passing smoker’s light, a neighbor's first goodbye 
after a first date—the tumbling upon her umbrella.

God! This was the only kind of drama I wanted to watch—
even if I knew the ending: My hand grabs her shoulder, 
after I pull out from the risk, and I hold a kiss that becomes 

a shout that becomes a kiss against her cheek. I love you. 
She tells me, I cum like a woman. My Shaking. My thanking. 
And this is the greatest compliment: to be compared to a woman. 

Her tiny nails tapping my forehead as I kneel 
to catch my breath. My cheek against her gold tan calf. 
She doesn’t have to ask—we go again.

 Inference / Jingyu Li

for my grandmother

If the trees go on for as far as the eye can see
then they must go on forever. When a thrush flies
into the distance into the infinite trees I assume
they return a different thrush, changed by what 
I cannot see, changed by the infinite trees and 
the light from a different sun. Dearest granddaughter,
you are across the planet from me, maybe you are
on a planet I cannot see. When the wind blows
southwest, it will not be blowing the same speed
or angle across your face. Maybe it is perfectly
still where you stand. Maybe you have never heard 
of wind. I laugh at the ones who say we are looking 
at the same moon. It is a certain way here, but you 
are not here, so how can it be? It is a lie people tell 
themselves to remain fixed to their loved ones
but love moves, dearest.

Still Climbing  / Stefanie Zito

Before I acclimated 
to acceptable social cues 
and appropriate inquiries, 
and much to my mother’s mild mortification, 
I’d enter any home I’d find myself in 
with one specific request– 
most often met with surprise, 
or a tinge of embarrassment, 
regarding my simple 
yet presumptuous appeal: 
I would readily ask 
to journey upstairs.
Curiosity called me to climb
beyond the barrier of stairs
to ascend upward in discovery
past the presentable ground level
and with the accompanying trust
to venture into the mundane, yet 
private and intimate spaces.
I wanted to see how people lived
the cozy and relational ways
intimate spaces were inhabited
to look beneath by going above  
indulging in the hidden 
geography of home.
I still retain lofty aspirations
to visit unkempt places
and feel right at home.