March - Poem 27
Preparing for the Gala / Kathleen Bednarek
Believe me and I do. I do speak of restoration, of apokatastasis, rather than apocalypse. I believe and I
act through the distribution of genuine care exacted in small acts of kindness, holding a brass
candelabra picking up the refuse of a history that haunts us, trudging, jabbing the cold ground of its
mistakes and treachery so others may attain comfort rather than receiving the fast food bag of no
choice, only apathy, or other poor roping mechanisms terrorized by their faces looking into doom
mirrors. We need each other just to open the cellophane on a pack of cupcakes or gather the
measurements of the sprinkler system greening the desert. It’s wonderful the systems mostly work
seamlessly—the streetlights determining the timing of the fish market delivery truck. The snapper’s
fresh, thin, pink halo eyes on ice stored in cardboard looking up sideways at us who they will now
enter though never understand, nor us them, though by saline sensation fed into our bodies formed by
millennia of ocean. Delicate flesh to go with the wine. We who wander in parties of preferences who
are thrown into finite lives pointing to count attendance. We enter and stream like shiny naked ghosts.
Come heal me with your deadest cells/ Mymona Bibi
golden shovel after Candace Lin’s g/hosti exhibition
The street is full of our regret until the trains come
to pick us up and hold us, our knees bump as we try to heal
our wounds from the arrow of time. you and me
watch the tunnel close in, we’ve never breathed with
our eyes open so the darkness is home, damp is your
memory. we burst out the ground and our bodies are the deadest
after mutating and clutching the differences in our cells.
The Painter / Susan Hankla
had easels stationed
all over her house
and at each one
ice cream bowl-sized ashtrays
full
of her cigarette butts
bearing lipstick kisses,
briar rose.
After she was gone
tours
of her house still went on,
except now she no longer
could give hugs
to greet us.
Nobody
dared empty
her ashtrays,
even then.
in memory of Nancy Witt
82 / Amy Haworth
My dad on his e-Bike
is eight years young
I drive his car
slow
mid-morning light,
mom and son in the car
10 minutes earlier, he made his own plan
called it
"I'll meet you there",
Wind and joy
alchemizing aging
Now
feels the creep of a car
Steals a glance to assess,
his eyes on the road,
My smile rises, its genesis
in heart's canyons
birthplace to the most extraordinary
lightness and love
Please—my joy pains in his purity—
can I always have
this moment in time,
see it in frames
freeze it forever.
If the world answers prayers
let me never forget
how happy he is
just
A boy on his bike.
Something to Consider / Christina McCleanhan
The only roof worth the dime it costs is made of tin.
Down the rain slides, and sound is carried
throughout the waiting rooms below.
Volent thrashings from pelting rain- the roof
shelters man from nature’s temperament.
The roof exists in a place of repetition,
and on occasion, a pause.
Rust-rimmed bolts, dry, caked dirt live a quiet existence
near the missing edges, birds nest around the gapped soffit.
Summer is told through expanding beams,
through winter as harsh air settles into the corner stillness.
The roof, sturdy and competent, intact or in pieces,
protects the chair, the bed, the family without cessation
until broken by an angry element—
water, fire, wind.
Renewal is dependent, resting in the hands of its owner.
Courage is irrelevant—collapse is anticipated.
There is a crack, a loose nail,
and a leak traveling to a box of photographs.
The subjects -soon to be forgotten.
What can be used to repair the loss? Not the roof.
A tiny human cries for peace, for understanding, and
who will bring comfort? Not the roof.
But unroll a cot, seek refuge from a damning heat,
a blistering sun, and you will be shaded
by its commitment.
The rain does not ask the roof what it remembers.
The roof would not hear the rain if it did.
The roof lives in a space of bracing, shielding, and rest.
Disappointed, lately keep telling myself / Alexis Wolfe
tilt lobe / open gullet
featherling awaiting slackblue-black
jagged confetti swirls out
instead
forgive me the party, it was
unintended
my ears burning red
you thinking
of me again?
