May - Poem 19
Vague / M. Anne Avera
When you come, I stare at you as if I could see through
an exit wound, a black hole with flesh bound
by bandage. Cold outside, like the night I showed
you how my body spoke, like the glass bowl
we smoked pot out of that time you saw my blood
drip against the inlet wall. Still, again, how I’d fall
if you crossed the space, half-drunk and afraid,
and I’d be back to where I started. Do you care
that I will always be your dog? We could unlock
and relive that moment when I first told you no.
I know you still think of it. Now, your eyes sting
just like they did back then, just like the the end
when we had nothing to hold. I’m a deer on the road
and here come the headlights.
The Skies that Move over us / Desirae Chacon
Shifting Skies
Unfurl above
why do we dream
maybe for some reflection
of perception of the fabrics of life itself
why do we breathe
maybe for present feeling
of being alive
why do we see
maybe to be receptive
the beauty that was gifted
around us
why do we feel
to feel more alive
than stagnation
of momentum
why do we believe
maybe for some hope
of our presence
currently here
on this Earth
as we walk
treading along the hyper-vigilant pathways
of this extraordinary life
Driving at Night / Heather Frankland
Traveling at night
how my aging eyes struggle
clinging to headlights
Our House is not Food / John Hanright
exquisite hexagonal architecture
food for Lloyd Wright Man mimics Nature
our house is not meant to be crushed between incisors
our house is a city unto itself hive mind?
no: a finely-tuned instrument humming, reverberating with
musicality symmetry reactivity
oozing saccharine fractals, each space is its own fiefdom
our house is not food, another natural marvel to privatize
our house is an ancient colossus far outdating the Great Pyramids
by millions of years and yet you use it as an ingredient
in ASMR videos
My Turn / Jillian Humphrey
At forty I become
a whirling dervish
though I still believe
in a great cloud
I want to be alone
in the wild
eating honey and focused
I want beatific vision
I want silence
amma, a desert mother
preparing all
the treasures of solitude
including enjoying oneself
including including oneself
never explaining
the way the river
never explains — it rivers
down both arms
in dancing
a dizziness and then
an unbearable
premeditated kindness
so absolute as to wash away
the choir
and whatever mean little deity
might shout over
this music
VICTOR / Shane Moran
Friday morning, while we ate
cereal, and I rolled my eyes
at Stephen A, my niece asked me
how much taller Wemby is than me.
She asked me whether what’s
on her tablet is AI or a real
child, dusty—speaking Arabic,
saying he can’t find his mother.
Last night, we stayed up
late to watch the Spurs.
We have found another young
giant to inspire our children.
We watched him chase out a
storm in the eye of it, then she hit
my arm for my attention, asking
if maybe Wemby could save
the boy from TikTok,
from the other day.
Like a superhero, bring him
to Texas until his mom got back.
The Cousins / Christina Vagenius
Sometimes I’d watch them. The cousins
on carousels, spinning. Their bodies,
a rubber band pull away from the man
pressing numbers, heaving the rise and fall.
The stallion’s escape. Feet locked in stirrups.
Their legs, a cheap thrill. Hey, Little Mama.
Hey Mama, nothing. The line outside
the drive-thru, some sunken head stray
begging for the last of her fries. The hole
she dug to hide — when the man
with the Riesling smile found his tongue,
made it wide, between two fingers. Her fever,
swallowed. Where the fang found her, the farm
framed by what no one allowed her. To be
best at digging, her porcelain fingers cracked.
And the glazed memory, a shadow-lined
cape couldn't save, her shoulders pulled back,
maneuvering the wants of what men? Heels
waiting on the pull of anger to plow the path
beneath her. The odious turn of heads, to seize her.
Hair braiding the web of a spider’s slow climb.
Bruised bracelet faded. I —
I didn't know. What was happening
beneath the door’s glow. In her room.
The walls, birthing thunder. Fields, bright
turning soil white, as remember. Pinched eyes.
Hours falling from the wall. A cigarette tip,\
halo spinning, pulled the bridle back. A growl
pushed inside a pocket. Until, the door
opened again. Hey, little mama.
Symposium with Flies / Sonya Wohletz
*
My coworker is talking me in circles again, hell-bent on destruction.
A pause here, a re-direct. Very difficult. Isn’t this why
Socrates only asked questions?
*
The phone battery died. No, I didn’t finish my workout.
*
I am most saddened of all to report:
The squirrel family has lost one of the babies. I had to extract her
from the wall with rusty pliers.
*
I left an offering of condolence fruits for the bereaved.
*
Later, my son asks me to teach him about these four categories:
“civilization” “city-state” “monarchy” “nation”—
I will have to come up with the study guide separately.
*
At least I now know that olives should be served at symposia.
*
As another aside—the poet alone is qualified to show that unicorns deserve their beastly dignity.
*
The quince tree has lost its last flowers. I have ideas, but no words.
*
Or is it the other way around?
*
I digress. I want to finish the story about my coworker but am afraid of the outcome.
*
You know the dialectic is good if it is a) unstable and b) drives to absolutes.
*
With clarity the flies abound; they instruct on mourning.
*
Why don’t I write more about flowers?
But I know nothing of flowers; they have done enough already.
*
When I write, I want to know what the beast makes of its own sounds.
I want to feel the splitting of the ovum—the nectar
raptured from my naked membranes.
Oil leaking from the pressing stones. No petals to shade.
*
I guess
*
I want flies?
