May - Poem 24
Rain of your window / Desirae Chacon
Pain is like rain
on the glass of your window
it obstructs the view
maybe clouding
feelings more pleasant
sometime we want to hurry
out of these moments
away from what hurts
its frustrating trying to see
out of something that was made
for looking out
but lets wait
be still in this moment
rather than gravitating away
lets start finding solace
in the middle of the disarray
lets start finding peace
in the perplexity
tranquility in the treacherous
turmoil of time’s terra
see how you could be at peace
see how you could be at ease
in the middle of the sunsets
in the middle of the sea
Kat Asks Me to Write About Curiosity, a Hidden Agenda? / Heather Frankland
Through the car window--highways and tall grasses
and mountains I am not used to;
every tree deserves a photo memory
every patch of green with wildflowers--a mystical poem
or an aspiration: You survived, delicate
flowers; you survived the hungry deer,
the careless tires, the hot asphalt.
I want to absorb everything, learn
everything, research everything.
At the small town where Kat and I
stop for shops and cold beers
where buildings are painted postcard-bright,
I ask to go to the museum; she waits outside.
I see old glass, tales of railroads, rooms to peer into,
and the museum worker tells Kat,
Your friend is curious.
Later, we laugh about it,
but his words hold a ring of truth.
At my best, I am curious
about the world, people, a good story.
I will sit calmly on a wooden stair
with splinters for a good story
or listen in a long line
at a convenience store.
This is the best of me--
travelling me.
When I forget that side,
I have friends that remind me;
when my stomach sours with fermented
fear and resentment and insecurity, they remind me--
the stories of past adventures
and curiosity--you once had that, you still have that
you will always have that, don't worry,
follow that curiosity; it may not be a clear path,
but it is a path that is clearly yours.
Waiting for a Train / John Hanright
III.
Sweat collects
Around the handle of my suitcase
I swallow – sandpaper tongue
Glancing at my watch –
Stainless steel, my name
Engraved on the reverse, a message
“A timely recognition of your committed service and implacable loyalty” –
8:10
Each perpetual tick
A moment closer to an internal revolution
Eyes beside me
At the terminus, expectant looks
Gazes steely and distant
Like the soon arriving train
Music of life plays in their ears
Waiting
Waiting
Waiting
For a train
The Song / Jillian Humphrey
I learned the song when I was little,
but it doesn’t go this way.
My hands are stiff.
The keys are sticking.
Let’s go back to the top
of the city where the wind
is sailing and you can sing to me
like a siren. Offer me
my life again.
Tempt me.
Tell me you’ll let me stand outside
the door of the nursery
and when the baby cries
I’ll go in. I’ll say yes
to the kind of proposal
I dreamt up when I was 14
— the one with roller coasters and dolphins
and donuts. I’ll accept pleasure.
I’ll turn away anyone
who pitches me world saving
or love I shouldn’t have or
shiny religion. I’ll be happy
while I’m still young.
Tell me someone will touch my body
only when I want it. Tell me I’ll know how to want
something besides permission.
Tell me I’ll have permission and a house with a porch,
some place to lie down,
and a Polaroid of me baking a cake
with my small children in our kitchen.
Ask if I want to trade my desperation
for power and I’ll say, Yes,
what will it cost?
Do I have enough, and if not
where can I get it?
Open your coat
and show me your wares.
Will I get to be honest?
Will I get to be brave?
Will I get to know who to like and trust
and will it get to be me?
I want to do this all again.
Nothing has moved on or been outgrown.
The baby clothes come flying out of their bins and gravity is sucked back out of the ozone. Even the light goes back.
Back to where?
Maybe further.
I am six, holding a kitten,
memorizing the song.
I play it over and over
in my summer yard.
This is every bead on my rosary:
a different past
inside this past
and myself.
Meanwhile, in another city,
Jesus is listening to the radio.
He’s in the garden
watering the same roses
he’s been watering
for a trillion years.
Winsome / Christina Vagenius
The tree had a name for my sorrow.
She called it winsome when the house
shuttered, when the swing set tipped over
the bright burial of worms, holes
dug from the tip of the toe
she had eyes, little knots without knowing
I called her Claire for the girl at camp
who held my hand when the skin
broke its silence, and the bird
below the window I buried at her hollow
roots wrapped around the meaty path of my palm
when I told her I’d see her again, tomorrow.
For My Friend on His Birthday / Sonya Wohletz
Tacoma, WA 5.23.2026
The horizon fills itself with plenty of things to name
but provides few clues. Railroads are designed of a higher faith.
Is there a word for the soft mystery aching at the center of friendship?
Don’t tell me about souls—it’s not Pentecost Sunday yet.
You gesture toward the way the currents sway their limbs
through the inland sea; how serene they appear at this hour.
Something must hold the far edge of balance. The resident orcas,
kicking up during a kill—mists backlit like lace on raw linen.
We press the falling light to our tongues. We ask for desserts
because it is in our nature to devour our most cherished symbols.
Whereas the islands beyond open like a gate—
darkness rushes in from behind, waving its tired arms again.
The drive home: your good hat forgotten in the back seat.
The old mill hoofing through what’s left of this evening on earth.
It borrows a rib from your father’s memory and sprouts
parables that will swell and sweeten in young grasses.
