May - Poem 14
Body Horror: 1 / M. Anne Avera
There exists no neutral way to describe
the body. No thinking or speaking or writing.
There is no manner in which one can talk about the body
without connotation, glimpses of opinion, judgement call.
With every word comes a sentence—a cell block or
gallows’ knot.
Healing / Desirae Chacon
Sometimes Healing is a long cold dark process
dark not in opposite of goodness
but dark as in frigid, isolate, lonely
awaiting sunrise after sunrise
feeling a little bit healed day
after..
day
long as in pacing
checking the spiritual wristwatch
on your arm
seeing if anything’s changed
mind buzzing with the cares of the world
but wait for a second
and just breath…
look again..
the second hand moved
and you feel lighter
joy, peace, happiness
are not a destination
but an already all enveloping location surrounding you
like the Sun behind stormy skies
light and easy
like birds
behind shady clouds
healing is a journey
step by step
in gratitude
youll see change
youll see strength
I Tell Amy What the Mornings Were Like in Lima, Peru / Heather Frankland
The first time I lived in Peru, I lived in a village
where the morning came slowly, steadily
the sounds of the roosters and donkeys,
of people waking up,
of women stirring fires to make breakfast,
of families mumbling their hellos
of men getting ready to go to the campo
to herd sheep or look for yierba—
the slow murmur of the day beginning,
and then—as always—so much to do.
Lima wasn’t like that.
The morning, a race, and me, a lap away,
I leap out of bed,
rush to the heated electric shower
chance the shock that happens
if I put my head or hands too close
to the shower head.
Dress quickly, take the purse that zips,
the one I wear crossed over my shoulder,
something ugly that no one
really wants to steal.
Grab the lunch made for me
by my host mom; I hope it’s her
quinoa soup or the garbanzos with spinach.
Run down the stairs. Run down the stairs.
Pass the floors with the primos, tias, y tios.
Say a quick, Buenos. Pass the beautiful
papelitos, their fuchsia flowers blooming.
On the street, see the friendly cat no one claims
and chance a pat on his dirty orange head.
Then rush, rush, but stop for the booth
with emoliente in a plastic bag and straw.
Worth the pause—the warm tea
gives more energy than coffee.
Drink it and cross the street to wait
for the bus; it’s almost there!
The bus, not full yet, I grab a seat,
the traffic on this road—intense
how close the bus gets to other buses
but never does more than a casual tap.
Pressed tight to other passengers,
I breathe, look out the window—
I made it. I won’t be late.
Then traffic jam, traffic jam—how many today?
Lima’s streets clog with morning traffic.
When I get close to the office,
I leave the bus early to walk many blocks,
the street parallel to the busy street,
the sound of traffic somehow muffled.
I find the panaderia that I like—
have a treat, and then write.
Only then do my shoulders relax
pleasure in this hidden treat,
before I have to turn back on.
With this sweet-treat breath, I walk
by Parque Ramon Castilla—
this park that still lives on aqueducts
made by the Incans. Fue peligroso
a friend told me, but it’s hard to imagine
this beautiful park where I sometimes work
as anything other than beautiful.
It’s hard to imagine that this Lima rhythm
can start to feel as natural
as the first time I lived in Peru
in a village that bloomed slowly,
then all at once. The place where I could
see the stars dim into day.
Giving Up the (Holy) Ghost / John Hanright
If the road to Hell is paved with good intentions,
does that mean that the road to Heaven is full of potholes,
with signs reading “Good Work Ahead” every five miles?
If so, would you drop me off at the next rest stop, please?
If the best trick Lucifer pulled was convincing everyone he doesn’t exist,
and if God created Lucifer to test humanity,
does that make God an illusionist?
If so, when will He make evil disappear?
If I am my brother’s keeper,
and if my sister was “born for a time of adversity,”
what does that make my nonbinary cousin?
If Saint Peter is holding the Key of Heaven,
and if Jesus is holding the Key of David,
who is holding the key to the Porsche?
If the Lord is my shepherd,
and if I am supposed to sow seeds of righteousness,
what does that make me, a farming sheep?
If humans are made in God’s image,
and if gender is not binary,
why is the state killing God’s children?
Ode to Shea (1992-2011) / Jillian Humphrey
“I would prefer [poet] to be a word that was used on a
person’s death, that was sort of conferred like a title,
because the fact of making poetry doesn’t make one a
poet, and a poet is a rare thing.” — Louise Glück
Shea, you are a poet.
A forty-year-old woman walking the edge of the sea, alone, reading memorial benches instead of looking at the waves,
I could not feel things in the way I was supposed to feel them for many months. I wrote, ‘Will I ever feel transcendent joy again?’ So when I felt your poem, I sobbed.
I cried because of a Mercy that filled me, and I cried because I could tell you knew what Mary meant when she said the world calls out to us. You knew an exuberant belonging, which I desperately wanted. Somehow, across time and space, you shared it with me.
You were a poet at eight. Louise is stingy on this, and though she is brilliant, we — The Poets — don’t allow her charge of the invitations. But about you, maybe she and I could agree: You are one of us.
When I read your poem, I remembered that I am one of us too. I read it over and over. I sat on your bench and looked at the sea. Then I went for a walk on the beach, where I recited the lines of your poem as I went, and at dinner I copied each line in my notebook until I learned your poem by heart, because I want to keep on remembering.
You are my pen pal, Shea. I will write back.
FALSE AUBADE / Shane Moran
—for M
She has more in common with the moon
than I’d first thought—this flirty monk-
woman, turning discs for a listening room.
She knows what they want to hear:
the songs she listened to alone on her bed,
adolescent and kicking, thinking of the one
from English 11, who she’s now fallen
loyal to. Her fellow’s body, her only
fellow body. The one
she says, she’d turn away from for one night,
if he’d let her—like a werewolf, she said.
She would smell the outlawed sweat
on my wide back, and return before sunrise.
At the set’s end, she ran away, fell back
to sleep with him or something like with
him—their faces tired under shrinking moonlight,
her body, cold against the wall. I held the same
weight of an unsaid stay—heavy on my tongue.
I See Nothing But Lost Days / Christina Vagenius
When I prune the hydrangeas, I whisper
I’m sorry for waiting too long, for not knowing
where to cut, for letting the blade get dull.
Maybe this will be the year I finally kill you, then
the sweet liquor spill of wild geranium
between the Beech, the heavy lid wake
of morning. A gulp of transom light
adorning the yellow belly throat,
the ramp’s green thumb hitching a ride,
screeches Not so fast.
Kurban / Sonya Wohletz
I dreamed the dogs again—dusty road, dissolving
under my tongue, pale wafer.
Sweet waters, salt skies. The roll-out bed.
Hospital. Too many mosquitoes. Exquisite things.
Flashback to a former deadline: the tumor board.
Nothing was saved. Seduction failed thrice.
A Zofran means we sue for peace. Night alarm.
How many wavelengths. Flour sacks loaded
like weapons: true
belief means dying or hunger.
The rams, could I but afford rams.
To distribute their meat among the least
fortunate. To save for my children—
the heart, the liver, the spleen.
