June - Poem 16
In Progress / Kristina Byas
I am the girl I used to be,
I am the woman I have become,
I am the stranger I’ve yet to meet.
I am.
Spiritual Practice / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson
The first time she masturbates she does it with her hands,
the finger she dips in oil to make the cross on her forehead
now curled up inside her motioning, come here, come here.
The pastor told what it is to for a woman to be blessed:
year after year, a little angel nursing at her breasts, a man’s
arms, muscular and sweaty, wrapped around her body.
The bible says it is better to marry than to burn. Get down
on your knees and pray for your bridegroom, the pastor spat
from the pulpit, waving his hands in the air, and she will but
now she lies on her side, head bowed, knees drawn up to her chest
like a baby, born again and again and again and again and again.
Drukningsdøden / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason
As you tremble, trundled up,
it’s the glacial spray that tastes you
first, the green of water before the blue,
the salt in the air before the cold,
the beat of boat beneath your feet
before the wind inside your fingers –
glovesless because you’ve forgotten them,
hatless as your hair wisps ‘round your ears.
All of you awfully cowled by the glaciers, seven
shimmering and white, monstrous angels,
quelling to quiet all the moments
between heartbeats, even thudless
on the hull, only ice groaning
Se og vær redd for meg
in seven voices echoing in dissonant choruses,
drilling holes into the green, the blue,
the salt, the wind, and the boat. Taste
that drowning coming for you and whisper:
Tusen takk.
Jeg elsker deg.
PENIS / Shane Moran
I’ve mulled over how I treated your body,
an ignition and my body, a pacifier.
I should have been more quiet in the dark
and felt your skin for what it was: a shore
of silent-hills and raised hairs. I thought watering
your Spanish needles and placing ice in your orchids
were comfort enough — I didn’t know what to do
with your body sick or grieving or out of its mind.
I submit. I’m capable of blindness. A dickhead.
There were better ways to love than devouring
your body until our faces were unrecognizable
without a squint and the right light.
Untitled / Jingyu Li
by Bei Dao, trans. Jingyu Li
Reach out
your hand to me:
don’t let
the world that’s blocked
by my shoulder disturb you.
Imagine love
is not forgetting and suffering
is not memory.
Nothing really
ends. Even if only
the last poplar is standing
like an empty tombstone
at the end of the road.
Don’t you know?
Falling leaves can still speak,
fading as they flutter, turn pale
come to a stop
yet still supporting
our heavy footsteps. It’s true,
no one knows tomorrow,
tomorrow begins
in another morning,
at that time,
we will have fallen
into a deep sleep.
Soft Summer / Stefanie Zito
The time is ripe to step
into a new season,
so let’s slip in
to something more comfortable
trade the too tight
drawstrings of busy bygones
retire the attire of rigid demands
declaring them outdated, passé.
I’m here for a silky spell
of smooth and simple scenes
the luxury of unfastened time
loosen the slack
drop the to-dos.
let’s drape ourselves
in the softest summer.
