May - Poem 16

Body Horror: 3 and 4  / M. Anne Avera

2.

From the first time we are examined
under ultrasound glow
we are described, placed into categories,.
This is what allows us to be
turned from animal to person.

3.

I am not neutral to myself. I become
arbiter of each independent part of my functioning
whole. I am less of me and
more of the world when I permit myself to
look down, look across, look around,
at my body.

Past the Prime   / Heather Frankland

The murky water
of old flowers,
dried white buds,
still, a faint perfume—
Must I throw them out?

Chickadee / John Hanright

I land on the perch
– Exhausted –
Curl up in the box and sleep
With one eye open


Is a house a home –
If there is no one to share it with?


Home
A haven from the storm
A depository for dreamers


I settle down in my downy bed
Moss and feathers and empty eggs
Dreaming – in darkness – of slow time


Singing this song
Into an unhearing, deafening sky
Full of discordant chatter
And mating calls


My verses fling out
From my breast
With the ardor of a flower
– Unpollinated –
Must I live in darkness –
Forever?

Slow Drip / Jillian Humphrey

Eden is leaking
horses.
Leaking oceans
tall grass
honeysuckle
tendrils
baseball
back porch radio
naptime
blanket cocoon 
hammock in May
little buttercream writing desk
ice cream cone on the way to the park
new friend
old love
blue whale
mourning dove
singing
sun
brave brave hearts
sky and sky and sky
I am holding my sleepy puppy. The world is
filling up with soft things.

Haiku  / Shane Moran

Everyone thinks
they live in Los Angeles—
no one is looking.

Al-Anon In Room 217  / Christina Vagenius

the room full of women
time tucked into pockets
receipts with no returns,
inventory, laced-lined,
heels but no skirts.
Said there’s no one
to blame — but if it’s all
the same to you,
I’ll take the pamphlet
with the coffee ring
stained pain and plenty
our Father, I’m sorry -
too many days have
followed me here,
laid tracks to listen
for the rumble before
finding legs to stand
your addiction to resist-
and           to restraint
to solving the mirror
by opening the gate.

Keep coming back,
it works if you work it
your hands in a circle
right, left, middle
a single, a double
a smile,
if you’re able.

On the Banks of the Bíobío / Sonya Wohletz

On the banks of the Bíobío—moon feathering herself in fog, in smoke
Whispers radiate like dancers into the night,
Twisting near the edge of the flame, where memory first spoke. 


Her simple reflection upon those wide waters evokesS
ilver rains, odors of canelo—stringent and bright,
On the banks of the Bíobío—moon feathering herself in fog, in smoke. 


She gathers clean plants, menstrual bloods, and adorns her blue cloak
With petals, seeds, and feathers for flight,
Twisting at the edge of the flame, where memory first spoke. 


She summons secrets of her women, and with embers she stokes
A vision that mounts its symmetry to surreal heights,
Along the banks of the Bíobío—moon feathering herself in fog, in smoke. 


There is now clarity where once she illuminated broken
Forms, half-shadows—now brought fully into her pure light,
Twisting at the edge of the flame, where memory first spoke. 


Black-necked swans disperse her image with a single wing-stroke,
And with their fluid motions articulate an ancient delight,
On the banks of the Bíobío—moon feathering herself in fog, in smoke,
Twisting near the edge of the flame, where memory first spoke.