March - Poem 22
Humility / Kathleen Bednarek
The pulp of Delaware watermelon. The continuous search of sparrows. A puppy licking my ankle is cordial. Friends talking fast under umbrellas, holding each other up as they pass. Silently stirring a pot adding some water now foaming with beans. Now, isn’t it? Your breath unwavering as you speak. What it takes to regenerate bone. To watch someone be moved to regenerate. In all honesty.
Used auto parts of shame discarded to the rain storm.
My knees. I put a bunting and a banner around the interior of the hall for your get together.
Welcome them into the light of your face.
Out in the distance, / Susan Hankla
I am the only one made
to take the story with me,
this particular
mystery.
But I try to re-enter it, and find I need props,
Shalimar on pure cotton cloth.
You can walk with us / Amy Haworth
When you walk with us, the wind will brush your skin like a baby’s warm breath and you’ll notice it tickle your back. You’ll wave about 50 yards before we meet with a hug and a smile that etches the lines a bit deeper at the creases that tell joy’s story. We’ll briefly exchange our surprises about the weather, and I’ll shed warm clothes, knotting empty arms at my waist. We’ll turn north and then east, drawn to a new path amongst throngs of young families and old locals. Someone will know to ask us to take their picture “over here, under the sign” and won’t stop talking about how many people and that they knew we weren’t tourists because they’re from Delray and Boca. We’ll talk about farmer’s markets, sobriety, removing data from the web, the difference between being a serious person and taking yourself seriously. We’ll get yelled at by a security camera for walking on the other side of the street but too close to the fortress and we walk further just so we don’t have to double-back and be chastised again. We’ll banter about what we make for dinner on repeat, and contemplate what’s for dinner tonight. Because of our walk, I’ll put peas in the orzo and it will make me happy. We’ll interstitially wonder where exactly we are but it won’t matter because the only direction is forward.
Nightstruck / Christina McCleanhan
Is your forgiveness soft? Does it lean into the curves of sweetness you prefer? Your gut, your bowels- does the release assuage your guilt? Look up, my wilderness, and see the half- moon's face from the swing on our front porch. Does it remind you of how I wear my apologies with resting acceptance, a cardigan that covers the careless stain on a never-worn, party-dress chiffon? And the others? Strangers who rush crosswalks with beep-beep speed, do they feel sorry for the violets crushed beneath their anxious feet? Watch the hornets shaken from their nest—stroked heat, burning anger quick. I could stomp my feet, clap the blackbirds away, but maybe they tire of backyard maples, spruce, and elm like wedding rings make me sigh. Mud tracks on a concrete floor, sweep them wide while the dogs bark and the neighbors watch. When rain falls hard on your tin roof, is love a lightning strike that writhes in agony through corn field luck, or water meant to clean the sins from a poor man's hands? How can forgiveness be soft?
Neighborhood Library / Elizabeth McGraw
All these comings and goings clog up the street.
You’re wandering and crossing where you’re not permitted to pass.
Hands full of books likely long overdue.
In the rain.
In the snow.
In the spring.
Arriving by foot.
By bike.
By car.
My god you’re old.
Good grief you’re young.
You’re meeting in pairs.
You’ve come alone.
You come and you come and you come.
And they want to close it.
i'll die like this / Alexis Wolfe
dog smudged mud across
printed page and i almost raged
at it—stick chomp stick chomp
stick after careful printing
sorting
arranging cut pages
earlier i watched a worm disappear
its neck mashed my fingers
through wet earth searching
its revival—the flowers slime
like the worm slimes like we do—
dog bites head off yellow
blooms all afternoon
presents stick with longing
cow eyes here look what i made
i’ll die like this
