June - Poem 3
Growth Spurt / Kristina Byas
I grew out of the body
I never grew into,
for years, calling it home.
An unfamiliar voice answering to my name,
skin stretched thin over bones that ached and muscles close to atrophy.
Every mirror held this stranger,
someone longing to belong,
searching for proof of herself
in the absence,
wandering for as long as she could,
refusing to say she’s lost.
in all my dreams my house is the one i grew up in / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson
i’m not twelve anymore
but sometimes i’m still scared
of the dark
—the way the light
shines in through the windows
makes shadows on the ceiling
ghosts on the floor
i’ve tried not being
haunted but there’s something
about the paint color
something about the fist-
sized hole in the door
my room is still the room
with the butterfly wallpaper
my room is still the room
at the top of stairs
in some dreams
i’m the mother
in others the daughter
in some dreams i’m the monster
living under the bed
rain on hot asphalt / Jess Tønseth LeeGleason
It’s the plight of thunder released
after the fiend of lightning slaps the sky,
after the silver bellies of the leaves flay the storm.
after the wind cools the sweet skin stuck between our bodies.
after we’ve come down with each other’s fever.
fervorous to devour each hour, wrap onto each other,
to rough across this sky of bones we’ve rooted.
We move into electric lives of atomic infinity between our skin
and that thunder clap ricochet, the hollow in our hands
morph with the silver sides of leaves better than the storm can
rocket our bodies. These temporary bodies rock again
with the span of short rains our frames, storm
and roll as we pass into other countries,
bodies, leaves, and sky – all forgetting where we bared.
In Quiet Times / Jingyu Li
Then rain began like applause,
my nightmares denting the pastures
Even the sea ends somewhere—
Once a mother taught us to begin
at the bounds of things, the puzzle’s
edge, the waking hours. We measure
each other by asking what if.
And what if it ends? Yes, even that,
even fear. How it rises, mounds
of freshly shucked oyster shells grasping
the blue sky. If we stay here long enough
we become the landscape, if we stay longer
the landscape changes.
PENIS / Shane Moran
It desires power, but it rarely comes easy.
Power is the most intoxicating feeling to come to
Understand. Power says this is your kingdom come,
Your body, your will be done. Power’s the ideal stroke.
It takes you, and grateful for you—it grows.
Orderly home. Well-trained dog. Success.
Sex. No Surprise—a door opening, a practical
Stranger welcomes, using Mr. then your name.
Respair / Stephanie Zito
The fresh hope
of rebounding from dark days,
The sudden return
to a better state.
The crisp anticipation
and spry suspense
of pristine expectancy.
The delectable foretaste
of a favorable forecast.
A brisk burst of serene repose.
The pure excitement
and invigorated longing
for what’s here and what more will be.
To breathe again.
In a word, respair.
Hello to this little known, obsolete 16th-century word.
Why did only its counterpart,
despair, persist in our parlance?
Let not the limitations of our acknowledged text
set the stage or direct the path for us.
Words hold such curious power.
So wield the tool of your tongue and
speak it into existence with me:
RESPAIR.
I’m newly learning it
and longing to live it.
Tired of trends.
Fatigued with fads.
Let’s start a full blown craze.
Will you join the movement?
Respair for the destitution of today!
Respair for the penury of our plight!
Seems as life-sustaining as respiration itself.
Let’s err on the side of it:
restoration, healing, restedness.
Inhalation. Exhalation. Aspiration! Exultation!
All together now!
