March - Poem 25

Poem for Friend Request / Kathleen Bednarek

The last I saw you was fifteen years ago.
We were in a bar on Locust Street. I could barely hear you.
You were with your boyfriend, now husband. 
I want to say
we were talking about Philotes, the goddess of friendship,
how her mother is Nyx, the goddess of night. Talking about 
how your dad was the first in our neighborhood 
to get the internet. Prodigy. How we rounded up 
instant messages along the Oregon trail, fetched tokens 
sitting cross legged, eating sweetened fruit pressed onto paper 
we unrolled while you fantasized about boys. 
I sat up in bed. Your face set against a background, a field of tall grass. 
I want to say 
I ran over to you but I think you saw me first. We were giggling so much 
we couldn’t breathe. We were kicked out of the movie theater 
while seeing Little Women. We ran away for no apparent reason 
from Girl Scout camp, feigning endless hunger and strife.

Does anyone stay on the phone all night anymore? 
I type your name. I include the image of a heart which is now 
traveling across           a space     somehow   
but not literally, like.

My / Mymona Bibi

hand-holding
heart-pounding
litter-throwing
wall-punching
teeth-kissing
new-kissing
self-hating
self-changing
time-eating
day-dreaming
glitter-spraying
care-rejecting
risk-chasing
night-maring
feet-pacing
city-craving
tongue-cutting
liquor-tasting
friend-finding
bus-taking
street-sleeping
stone-throwing
not-waiting
rough-asking
lie-binding
all-seeing
us-keeping
self-healing
moon-facing
world-making
baby

There are sparkling moments during great sadness:  / Susan Hankla

 

two white-tailed deer

                                  leapt in front of his mother's Hearse

on the way to her funeral.

                                So cold that December in Greencastle,

in tall grasses, ice encased each blade, and made its blinding

                               spectacle so that we arrived in a Damascus,

changed.

Geological Chart  / Amy Haworth

Born alive on dusty trails
embraced by wrinkled rocks
elite in their impatience for weakness
and fools
floating
in a raft, my rodeo
bronco
S  
    n  
 a
        K
    I
       n
g
the Snake River
until I was bucked off
hauled in
saucer eyed
parents’ horrified faces
while (another) bald eagle glided
sheriff of the skies
must’ve been dug from
ancient soil and arrowheads
gold flecks
and thrown by the wheel of
first settlers and log schoolhouses
big bell ringing
in a catacomb of wild things
bare feet blocks in a mountain lake
my chart in the house of Shoshone land
and ascendent wildflowers
immersed in beauty so loud
I lived awestruck ever since.

Peace / Christina McCleanhan

When sleep has gone off to
play in everyone’s bed but mine,
I open the window that serves as
a headboard.
Rain drips down
into clumps of
leaves lying brittle
-forgotten, but gathered-  in
 graves beneath the eaves.

And. Here I am. Still.
Amidst the poking, wet air- I live.
And. There you are, hushed.                                                                                                                                                                               
                                          Amidst the calm, waiting air- you breathe. 

On a Long Road    / Elizabeth McGraw

I hate to stay. I hate to go. 
It’s a longing and a loathing at the same time.
Is this what’s meant when they describe being an adult? I’m sure an adult would be 30% less bothered. Taken in stride. 

Could the news be worse? Long lines at the airport. Repaving the road in. It’s all a promise for tedium. Go early and you engage with it more. Go late and there’s an entirely new gift in store. 

Tuesday is the longest day of the week. It’s my favorite you said at the bus stop. Travel like this makes everything Tuesday. Too far in to turn back but not yet at the turn in the bend. 

I’ll take your position that it’s full of hope.  Wish me luck on this Tuesday!

Armageddon is an era / Alexis Wolfe

    Anyway how’s your heart? a friend 
asks my android  Fine covered in dust 
i always reply—Armageddon is an era 
not an event 
even the moon moves away
from the earth at an inch and a half per year
splintering light disperses in fractals
 creates repeating patterns   
At least life will be easy soon   J texts
from his grounded flight in Qatar  
he is always boarding grounded flights
chasing the ocean like it left him
i am always putting on my work pants,
eyes cut by the sun. there are truths
 we find to be self-evident: all of this 
was a gift, how I keep forgetting