June - Poem 17
Birthright / Kristina Byas
Privilege (noun):
a family heirloom inherited at birth,
a tradition with unquestioned origins, used by individuals as a means of self-preservation.
Hoodoo / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson
I dreamt of fish.
I bought a man shoes, and he walked
out the door.
A bird flew into my window
when I was sleeping
and now my grandmother’s dead.
I left the light on in the house
to welcome the spirits.
I broke a mirror and buried
the shards.
Goodbye My Children / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason
Our ship burns on purpose,
on whale oil. Its meal scrapes our teeth
preparing sinewy arms for the storm
– taller than the fjell, culling
more than the fjord we sail
– to rip the ropes from our callus-full hands,
to tear luaen from our red-eared heads,
to bat our ship like a bird from the air,
to cat-play with mice to the terrible end.
The water chums brown behind us,
trollene diving, stirring silt of safety.
But the deep of kokingen holds no power
of saving us – only that of redeeming finality
downing out that deluge of snow unhindering
from the mountains onto our kroppene,
onto our unblessed hands unceasing
in hauling for whales in this ice,
hauling for fire in this water,
hauling for our lives, and whistling:
å utsette tiden –
stalling our time.
Angel Sonnet 1 / Shane Moran
Beryl wakes and follows his father to the bathroom.
They brush their teeth together. He undresses
his five-year-old body and folds his pajamas, leaving
them on the toilet as the father takes off his beard.
The smell of aftershave is a man. His father turns
on the shower. Beryl enters in a hop like double
dutch—a little afraid of the water. His father
joins him and washes him, quickly—no words.
With soap on every part of his body, Beryl leans against
his father’s hairy chest until he is completely rinsed.
Then he sits and pushes his blue duck adrift in the suds.
Above him is the heavy fatherhood of his father.
————
1. grow up with
earth-
eyes
closed
Hansel and Gretel’s Tale / Jingyu Li
and then we abandoned our parents, left
them far behind, no crumbs to trace us by, we let
their rough hands go, held each others’ hands.
They’ll say we are lost, or eaten by a witch,
only the stars will wink, only the stars will know
what brilliance is a brother, what brilliance a sister’s
word. Up ahead farther, up ahead some more,
the forest is not dark after all, we spun around
and it was day. A sip from a river and all our toes
are health, a twirl in the clearing and time rewinds
itself. Sometimes we dream of walls, sometimes
they move like teeth. Out here in the woods
hummingbirds come to rest. Once we were told
a story, but sister, it is easy not to be lost.
City Deer / Stefanie Zito
I want to learn how to be chill like the city deer–
who despite their anxious disposition, have quickly grasped how to anguish less than their survival instincts mapped onto them. Though they get really turned around in their wandering about, and though I’ve seen them clomping down sidewalks in the strangest locations, city deer seem to be fairly used to us humans. Sometimes I’m more afraid of us than they are. Maybe I should be more like the deer– mind my own business. Steer clear when I can. Steal from the wealthy gardens. Snacks for the road. Meanwhile the cemetery is the city’s second zoo. So much life amidst such death. It’s literally wild. The deer frolic without giving mind to the bodies and memories on which they stomp. They stretch and leap gracefully over the graves– the way faith taught me I would do in time. They don’t plan or keep time, yet have everything they need in looking out for each other.
I want to learn how to be chill like the city deer.
