June - Poem 4

Rituals / Kristina Byas

They hold me,
keep me barely alive
until survival becomes
living without asking for permission.

Things My Brothers Said / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson

One brother said if I peeled back the bark of a stick and ate it, it would taste just like chicken. Another said I can’t play because I’m a girl. One brother said lightning is more likely to strike me if I hide under the covers during a thunderstorm. One brother said cat food was tasty and pretended to eat it, tricking me into giving it try. One brother said I’m much too quiet. One brother said I’m much too loud. One brother said I was whiny, one said I was weak. Another said bossy, another a bitch. One brother said guys prefer girls with big titties. One brother said I was too fat to live. One said I was stupid, one said a nerd. Another said that he wished I would die. One brother said you’re just like our mother. Another said you’re going to wind up like Dad. One brother said one day my husband is going to love how flexible I am. One brother said he never thinks about me. One said I’m stuck up, one said I’m mean. One said he hates me, one said I’m ugly. Another said things I cannot repeat. One brother held my hand when I was crying, and if he said anything, I didn’t hear. One brother said he never did like me. One brother said we’re practically twins. One brother said he’d love me forever, but after I never saw him again.

Impact  / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason

Hydrangeas flourish on my walk to the hospital
and bloom too early in the spring, like fireworks
of copper chloride, burning in loud, hot crackles.
When the loosest petals sail in autumn’s regalia 
and spread over the potholed streets, I gasp.
What a beautiful coat cast over the city, grander than I
could feel. The blossoms are spring lights for one
soul, summer breath another, and one heart
stuck inside that hospital, respirator clicking
awake – asleep – awake –
those cascading hydrangeas peak
as the curve of a lover’s cheek
and kiss again and again
to speak, criss-crossed over their eyes, 
of a world they held, they could hold 
again, as they raise their hand 
at the glass, prescribed mercy
though it never lasts.

Woman Reading / Jingyu Li

          — after painting by Eastman Johnson 

This is no time for poetry she said 
in a time of urgency, it is no time 
to sit in a room and feel. 
The woman reading is looking both
at the page and through it.
As she looks at herself, she 
steps out from her closeness. The sea 
disappears behind her, the boat floats 
on nothing. She is writing herself 
into the poem: this is no time
she reads, shadows
like sails over her eyes.
To lift herself from her landscape 
is a great work of fiction. There is no 
good time to feel, the woman is writing
or she is reading. In the distance,
the shadows do not hold.
Clothes loose as feathers
are her chosen garments. Yes, 
even dreams must bind to 
something.

Golden Hour / Stephanie Zito

After the run of the day the sun takes a dip– 
a charming show off she is with 
her slow motion plunge toward the rocky rim.
As she bows down, her beams 
scatter through the fields where 
we drench ourselves in her glow,
hosing off what the day has glomed on. 
She shapes and softens our shadows 
stretching them longer, drawing us 
deeper into her amber spell. 
Our silhouettes briefly extend 
into eons under her ambient illusion.
Her liminal luminance entertains 
our delighted deception that 
this moment will never end.
When suddenly she slips from sight. 
the afterglow of lingering light 
spans fleetingly and swiftly fades,
yielding to the mystery of night.