June - Poem 25
Damages the Art / Kristina Byas
I’m afraid you’ve been mistaken.
No one carved me smooth,
polished me for mantel display.
No sparkle or shine.
You won’t find me on a pedestal,
or hear songs filled with my praise.
I’ve got gritty corners tearing at fraying threads,
splinters catching on careless hands.
I am
unbecoming,
jagged.
Refusing to sand myself down
for easier holding
only to be mishandled.
My edges are proof
I’ve touched the world
and been hit back.
But there’s softness
after the burning subsides.
Homegoing / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson
her fingernails
the color of wet tea bags
she holds a moist cotton ball
up to the place where the mouth
splits open
in the backwoods
of Mississippi, pods hang
from the carob tree, curled up and dry
like my grandmother’s body
God is a watchmaker
in an old southern town
Plutonian Orbit / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason
It’s a warm day in spring and I sit
beneath a sycamore with baby leaves
and I see your green sapling face.
I stand like I’m cornered by a predator
– some tiger waiting at me –
hands out if a 90˚ angle will defend me.
It’s high hot day in August and I roll
into the shade of that sycamore
and you’re shirtless at the fountain.
I hold in a scream so hard I blow my voice.
I eat Oregon forest black cherry ice cream
to revive what’s left of my throat.
It’s fall, the sycamore is falling,
like the sky, and no one is out
in the gray and the thunder.
So I float down through the cobwebs
of my ceiling and land in my unmade bed.
I can’t stop moonscape-shaking.
It’s a delicate winter day after snow,
I walk looking down, and you
hit me with a snowball.
I gaze at the underlid of your eye –
whatever could be within their green irises too
expansive in expression and reflected in my own.
I crave your hands at the mid-
crutch of my back – the wing-
spot – where I can never itch.
Caress me there, see me here,
and I’ll kiss you once
and I promise –
I don’t know what,
but I know it will taste like sun-
dried limes, cloves, and honey –
Angel Sonnet 9 / Shane Moran
Backpack bouncing on her shoulders,
she skipped all the way to the car.
Beryl held his breath until he got his
Hi, Daddy, releasing it with her Hi, Baby.
And then, he lowered the music to a murmur,
asking if she’d like pizza before they head home.
Wearing a bib designed to look like a large slice,
he shared—a little sauce on her face, he had to tell
her something. Grandma—my mom, Lala passed
away this morning. Beryl fell quiet as the pizza fell
|flat on her plate, and she slid out of her booth.
She joined him on the other side—held him.
──────────────────
9. teach
kindness
as a butter
fly would
Days / Jingyu Li
by Bei Dao trans. Jingyu Li
Use a drawer to lock up your secrets
Write notes in your favorite books
Insert the letter into the mailbox
Then stand silently for a moment
Stand in the wind, making judgements
about those who pass by, without scruple
Be aware of the shop windows lit
by neon lights. In a telephone
booth, drop a coin into the slot
Ask the old man fishing beneath the bridge
for a smoke. The boats on the river
sound their empty whistles
Gaze at yourself through the fog and smoke
of the theater’s dressing mirror. When the curtains
cut off the noise from the stars and sea
Flip through the pages of pictures
and handwriting under the light.
Things I Used to Think / Stefanie Zito
I once thought autumn leaves reattached themselves to waiting branches in spring.
I once thought the lamp post next to the half moon was the moon broken in two.
I once thought I wanted to be an astronaut until I discovered my fear of flying.
I once thought I could save all sea life by snipping the plastic rings of soda cans.
I once thought the difficulty of love was merely in the finding of one’s soul mate.
I once thought heaven and hell were destinations rather than internal residences.
I once thought I knew what I was doing until I realized I didn’t.
I once thought everyone else knew what they were doing, but they probably don’t.
