March - Poem 12

We cannot wait for / Mymona Bibi

when the drinks are cool / when the sister acts non-alcoholic / when rivulets burn / when the city’s teeth are veneered / when limerance is the body’s speech / when walking is painless / when his name is officially misspelt / when her love is unidentifiable mostly to herself / when we pour libations and supplications over graves in Arabic / when without hands we use tongues / when without tongues we use hearts / when without hearts we feed the worms / when I stitch a road from here to Sylhet / when the drugs of war win / when resistance comes from wound-mouths / when hallucinations are generational / when the djinn are at the door / when the wrested mangroves give way to flood / 

Grateful / Susan Hankla

for the memory of being in the tub at my aunts'
hearing the telephone ringing, then both twins

poke their faces into the bathroom to say, "It's for
you." Tell them I'll call back, I said. "We can't do

that," they said. Wrapping the yellow towel around
me, I sat in the designated phone chair, while they

listened to my end of the conversation. And for
the memory of being in the tub on another day,

and hearing way far below, in the driveway
Mrs. Mounfield holler from her black Mercedes 

sedan, "Susan! Susan! Come down. My son's gone 
nuts and you've got to do something, because I

don't know what..." I dressed, flowered jeans sticking
to the apples of calves, 32 B bra frunpy and wet

the rest of the day, water being the perfect conductor 
for urgency. I did my best to help. Now he's inventor 

of some kind of special golf club, and rich as shit. 
I blame myself.

Precious  / Amy Haworth

A re-mix of the famous line from Mary Oliver's The Summer Day
          To tell
              me
              what is real
              is to tell
            it
       like you know it
Keep your plan
               to yourself
      And do
              with it as 
              your heart beats
              one, two, three  
         re-wild  your soul
              and stop
being so precious
with your life.

Yes, I Promise / Christina McCleanhan

after a dream, i cannot return to sleep, without
a glass of water, a piece of buttered bread, cheese

picture a peaceful current below an incline,
grass painted in shades of
prozac that seed into a Stepford landscape,
a cedar red canoe, a woman, a white dress,
a green sweater, a red lip
meant to make someone, anyone, fall
headfirst into
the flesh of summer
she calls out, “help,”  as the boat
hits shallow water, but laughter
lives louder than
sorrow in
her tone
i mean to help her, i mean to offer my hand, but
where are the sticks to grab hold
of? The roots, the pockets
of dirt to slide down?

like a peeled orange
on a hammock day,
she smells of woodsy heat, I am sure
this Calliope has melted butter
with Coltrane playing
on a radio
in the window of
her studio apartment.
Her gift is heavy already
against
my spine
when she departs
-fast nor slow, but all
at once. 
joy, peace, it is time 
to work.

don't know, it's late / Alexis Wolfe

lately i don’t know it’s like
late in bed typing rhythms by
keyboard light worn screech 
from other room think of you
saying hope parents are 
going swimming! or something 
like that during my life i needed 
options on earth I am 30
listening to podcasts about
quitting and that one daybed face 
saying magic cunt and how
 its not about what you
 was wearing but how