June - Poem 19

We Are / Kristina Byas

Kin,
skin.
Eyes wide, full
of wonder
to wander.
Silver,
our native tongue,
fluency in us.

Late Declaration / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson

I want women in power in business in STEM. in the military in trades in

suits in high heels in film in aviation in bikinis in congress in music

in marketing in sports in hotpants in lace in uniform in finance. in glasses

in ERs in TV in gaming in kitchens. in art in law enforcement

in real estate in leggings in publishing in landscaping in radio

in bakeries in childcare in courtrooms in boardrooms in factories

in nursing in sweaters in architecture in fashion in fitness

in mining in nighties in pulpits in daydreams. in space in makeup

in hindsight in pink I want women— like, want them want them—

lips to lips eye to eye hip to hip sternum to sternum

Twister (1996): Did You See My Cows Out Front?  / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason

I have seen Twister over 600 times.
I babysat myself each summer,
dumping the VHS into the VCR,
CRT TV squaring out the pixels, I rode
along with the storm chasers, those hodge-podge
collection of friend-family, found-family, 
soda-cans-improvised-into-propeller family.
I sang along with four different stereos
playing four different songs along synapses
of the CB radio of my brain, the undiagnosed
CPTSD canyon between the lobes of my brain.
I ate along, each lunch, each day, at Aunt Meg’s,
served up steak and eggs, wondering
about lightning,
about what it feels like to be hit.
Asking whether it’d be better to be hit
than screamed at, better to be hit
than windslide around the house in socks
avoiding notice, better to be hit
than be told I’d never be the thing
that’d get off the ground, better
to be hit, than told I was wacko, I was crazy.
I looked at Aunt Meg’s table,
with her steak and eggs and homemade lemonade,
I look still
and long. Each time, I ask 
to be lightning struck
over 600 times,
than remember fake silence
of not being struck.

Angel Sonnet 3  / Shane Moran

A black face underlined in pearl—a one of a kind.
Beryl’s best friend’s mother looks like a Huxtable,
and takes the boys to a white stripmall church 
on Wednesdays nights. In the field just beyond 

the parking lot, Beryl and his best friend play smear the queer 
with their youth pastor’s husband and all the other tween
boys, who like to prove their strength in tackling the bodies 
of other boys. Beryl likes to throw the ball, but he doesn’t 

like the feeling of grass on his bare skin. Pastor Bob
compares Beryl to Colin Kaepernick—pussy.
His best friend tells him to man up, show these white boys.
Beryl conjures his father’s famous courage and smears.

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3. mourn
more
  of your
learning

The Bear / Jingyu Li

All month long I waited for a bear to appear
though I spent much of that time in bed and in other places
where a bear would not appear. It will be Father’s Day soon
so I remember the colored letters I once printed and hung 
above the dining room table spelling ‘H A P P Y    F A T H E R ’ S    D A Y !’
and it was my joy to do that, my gift to celebrate. Today 
my arms are stained in paint and I am painting a picture
for a friend. The bear still has not appeared in my window 
and I do not know how to begin searching for it. I wait
for a miracle appearance. Ba, how much I want to paint you a picture
but can’t. A picture must come from the heart. I cannot paint you a picture nor 
can I send you a #1 Dad mug or apron. I am sad because I don’t mean 
to make you sad with my withholding. Every father
wants to believe their child believes they are #1. Breaking 
the illusion is like telling a child Santa is not real and never
has been. But a gift does not owe the world any truth except intention. Maybe once 
you were the #1 Dad, because I believed it. But it’s hard to believe now,
even for just a day. This poem would hurt you I think, by acknowledging what  
you know, but this poem also sends its regrets, yours mostly, and mine

On Remembering   / Stefanie Zito

I go to the trees
to remember how 
to be here and now.