March - Poem 4
Day 4 / Kathleen Bednarek
I’ve counted on my fingers, counted on flagrant red petals that slipped
and counted on people who ended up being known by their actions like came through or left me stranded.
Counted on paychecks, counted paycheck dollars, counted days until, days since, counted blessings, thought of absolution (really?) after ten Hail Marys
Hide and Seek counting to 100, sometimes skipped or sped through the numbers, eyes closed, eyes opened seeing where you were. Counted time
with no drinks; years went by and we spoke across tables about time as a free fall, the rising and falling of each Worm Moon or Strawberry Moon, eclipses hidden by weathermen counting tenths of inches of rain. My height marked on the wall purple magic marker line ____ below my best friend’s (for now my line is above her eleven year old daughter’s). My,
my, my….no it’s not mine. Impermanence–this breath on my
lip, the fall and rise of the belly. I’ve been dreaming of a butterfly; fake snoring whistling like a cartoon character, one eye open to see you giggling, I blink and fully grown living in Manhattan, a city of how many people? Taste the innumerableness of this soup! Floating carrot and translucent onion swirling, dash of pepper, splash of dark vinegar to cut.
How I can’t even begin and then do
and then I am borrowed to–
About thirty minutes into
the science show about black holes: the universe is expanding though it may be infinite
Swollen / Mymona Bibi
the city swelled like the curve of a cat’s back
when I ran out before dawn shivering
from the police in my apparitions,
you sliced the moon and found a sun inside it unkissed
dying - rays untouched.
the light of the new sun burnt the apparition from memory,
we stumbled on cobblestones back home
where we believed we were meant to go,
before you could help me stitch up the moon
so the nights would be ready for the sleepers.
in the padding of the night-cat’s paw
which crawled away from us is a reminder:
we can’t go back to bed until the city empties itself.
Introductions / Amy Haworth
Inspired by the beautiful prompt and poem by George Ella Lyons
I am from sagebrush
and last year's aspen leaves
I am from frozen eyelashes
and roller skating in covered courts.
I am from goodbyes to sister friends
from moon boots and mittens
I am from will you be my friend
and green mountain cabins and cards.
I am from outside looking in
hollow longing filled with good grades
and folded notes
I am from bridesmaid dresses
and moonlight snowshoes.
I am from U-Haul adventures
and severance packages.
I am from new year's sparks
turned rings below purple mountains.
I am from bedrest to baby
at 36th and Vallejo
I am from sea shore and man 'o war
finding patterns as a doula for change.
I am the cycle of the sun
watching age wrinkle as she teaches
I am awake. I am alive.
I am.
Dear Spring, Come! Quick! / Christina McCleanhan
Close your eyes. Listen…
to the thawed dirt…the robin’s shuffle…the barking dog
the distant siren…the neighbor’s saw…
Hold out your hand. Wait for Manna.
Turn the palm upward. Wait for forgiveness.
Clench into a fighting fist. Wait for peace.
First, you are exposed flesh; then, age and hydration become evident
when tendons resist the stretch.
Why must our joints strike in protest?
“Kneel,” I tell you, “Kneel.”
Pick up the spade. Slice into the earth.
Slide the worms, the rocks, the necrotic rot into the bucket.
Ignore its missing handle.
Renewal is rewarded with nourishing grace, not presented elegance.
Now, be still. Breathe.
One beat, two beats, three.
Space rests on your skin against your lines, fingerprints,
and
the knuckles meant for gripping life...
Attention-
offer it, plant it often.
Go ahead, share your fear.
Exist.
Horizontal / Elizabeth McGraw
Is it Monday, God no.
It’s Tuesday.
No alarm and it’s 4am.
Stayed awake with a single idea about work until 6:05.
True alarm.
First drop off at 7:18 but not before a heated debate on the term crashed out.
Husband in Amsterdam.
As it relates to sister.
Second round begins.
This is not torture.
Torture is knowing you leave for the bus stop in forty-seven minutes and wonder what might you accomplish. Shower for self.
Food for others for the entire day. Quick text. Morning Joe. A novel.
Walk the dog.
Head covered. Alarm set. A recovery.
New day. Same day.
All is well.
Grievances, Dreams / Alexis Wolfe
You have to dance, not
over-dance, someone said.
People are just like grass,
Agnes Martin tells me:
that is the way to freedom.
If you can imagine you’re a rock,
or—even better—a grain of sand,
you are free. To be free
one must summon a vision of quiet,
one must not over-dance. We are
our own dragon, longing
to hold one.
When you wade in the river,
you are just like me. When your
hair is caught in your car
windows, you are just like
me. A function of language
is to relate—relatively, I am dreaming
alternatives to Subject/Object
syntax structure—colonialism burned into
the brittle bones of our
language. Each sentence
a door, yet: He (subject, dominant) holds
her (object, passive). We speak
Corporation—it is all so
boring. What about Subject/Subject-ing
with me? We hold we. The body and
the language resist, there’s one.
This is less about listing grievances
and more about summoning a vision
of quiet within the school of Dreams.
This evening I biked over a hill
and smacked my face on the orange
moon. I couldn’t stop squinting
into the flat horizon—Now,
what is the function of that?
