May - Poem 11
Thesus / M. Anne Avera
I become human
Not consciousness, floating above
but sticky hands, bent knees—
each cell an own will. This being
you speak of is me.
And sometimes I see that picture
I gave you
and I wonder if that really was me—
if that moment still exists.
I believe it does. Because whittled
down to the raw form, I am whole
You can take me to pieces,
string them together,
add new parts and shapes and lines
just to see if you recognize me.
Where Your Hooves Lay / Desirae Chacon
where your hooves lay
that will be our way
to venture on
to further press
like a millstone on olives
anointing oils lay
so onto now
a sunrise beyond the sea
where sunrays peak
and graze upon the early grains of sand
where creeks run in mystery
and all undiscovered lays bare
where whispers became magnified
in the quiet breezes of this atmospheric air
and where salt and brine and waters of deep
lay upon the place of the seas
to where we’re going Horse
of Victory
A place forever lain in serenities of Peace x Glories
What I Would Do If I Lived Closer / Heather Frankland
To Mom
Make you blueberry pancakes
for Mother’s Day—balance them
on that small tray you cram
in the back of the closet
or behind the cloth napkins
and Tupperware in the cabinet.
Carry them to your bedroom
let you begin your day
with pancakes and maple syrup.
When young, I could make toast,
and then later, French toast,
but now I can make you more.
Imagine a small plate
of blueberry pancakes
a mug of good coffee
a small vase and a flower
I found on my morning walk
something common, yet pretty.
If I lived closer, I’d take you
for an afternoon drive
or to a movie theatre;
I’d buy the popcorn,
the frozen Cokes, all those
expensive treats that felt
luxurious when we let
ourselves afford them.
I’d take you to the store
to pick up wine—the sweet kind
that you like more than I,
but it’s your treat
because it’s your day.
If I lived closer, our conversation
would be different than a 30 minute phone call
where distracted, I am thinking of work
grades, dreading a late night of pretending
my body can take a late night easily.
I would pay more attention perhaps
talk of the past or the day-to-day.
If I lived closer, I would make you
blueberry pancakes, coffee,
and anything else you desired
for this day you should be treated
like you’ve always treated us,
making pancakes
for special occasions
and seeing us, any of us kids,
marked a special occasion
we don’t live down the street
or in the neighborhood or in the state
we live too far away to make you pancakes
on Sunday mornings, although
if we lived closer, we would.
Mother Dearest / John Hanright
Your screams of Thunder and Lightning
Are tempered by the wonder of Your singing
Your Cycles are timeless –
From baby’s entry out of Your canal
Giving birth to Consciousness
To Your loving Hands guiding us all
Back into Your mysterious Bowels –
Your sublime, star-capped summits transcend
The vanity of consonants and vowels
Your “Golden finger” admonishes and portends
Ruin to all those who cross Your Will – and still
You are the mildest Ruler
Governing with Equanimity and Equality ‘til
The final Breath of Time, Your brother
Your Friendship and fierce defense of all
Exalts You – never to betray Your affection
Loyal to Your children, who must heed Your Call
And defer to Your directions –
The tiny Chipmunk and mighty Elephant both obey
Your Advice – when to consent and when to defy
Where to go and where to stay
How to Live and how to Die –
Your Life is a Mystery wrapped in an unanswered Query
And yet we are still entrapped by theory
Primal / Jillian Humphrey
Like eating, touching, dancing,
poetry is what we do
before we’re enlightened
enough to write
an essay.
A moan, a whimper,
the guttural yowl
of the human — our animal language.
I wanted to be a novelist,
but all I can do is make sound.
PLAY FIRE / Shane Moran
It was always Friday,
when we played—
only underwear in the creek.
They will not understand,
it started with throwing a fire
into the water. We slow-toed
to fetch the playboy that Timmy threw
when he told us what Father Kevin says—
lust is a sin.
In the woods we gawked
at naked women from the 80s,
pointing out all that surprised us.
How We Save Ourselves / Christina Vagenius
I ask the poem who she is —
if she’s hungry, if she needs a nap
if the syllables sting when they pierce
the page, when I pound on the door,
press an eye to the drunken peephole,
you are
the sound of a cinched scream caught
by the nape of the neck, lingering in the air
too long as it billows past the critique’s
long arms, see see see
you there,
outside the window, past the panes
of smoky lore, a girl in a garden casting spells
over a mosaic bench bathed in light, fingers coiled
over cut glass, escaping the wound, tipped toes
pressed into night’s cold soil, reckoned
by the slip of the moon.
Unmarked Grave / Sonya Wohletz
Sangre sacúdase—crust of late earth.
I trusted this, at least.
The milk of my mother, her opalescent sea.
Though these, too, evade.
Somnolent savior, please help. A picture.
Perhaps, a flagrant wound I
pin to my dreams.
My bones drill the days through
its heart, to grind
together its many skies
in the bowl of women,
their blood-lipped chalice,
their art as yet unfinished.
Always, it seems
the path appears the same:
North along the road to Taos.
West toward Tierra Amarilla.
South to Cuba, La Jara.
East through Gallina, Jémez.
The journey describes a return
or an opening,
one might conclude.
What kind of door
evokes two names?
And were I to speak
I would say
I remember only one.
