May - Poem 28
my preferred confession booth is the discount bread aisle at the piggly wiggly / M. Anne Avera
got the time?
you know, all this shit used to be so much cheaper.
when i was your age, i could live off
ten dollars maybe twealve dollars a week—
not shittin’ you.
pardon my french.
course, men loved that like you wouldn’t believe.
that was before my bypass and my heart still pumped blood good,
despite all the stuff we was putting up our noses, not knowing better.
so it was no big surprise when i’d go downtown
to pool-shark the bar guys, get me some grocery money
and ‘em got a little handy a few of the times, lingerin’
when they’re lining up my shot you know, i knew
it wasn’t a banana in their pocket there but let me just say—
i’m not afraid to get down and clown, never ever was i afraid,
spite the fact my daddy (godresthissoul) brought me up in the big C church.
oh, my other folks hated that on account of them being baptist
through and through.
be a dear and hand me that there sunbeam,
will you?
say.
anyone ever tell you you got a face like a catholic priest?
you prolly keep lotsa secrets.
Love’s Lighthouse / Desirae Chacon
Sometimes Love
is like a lighthouse
in this ever growing cold-world
an oscillating light
shining wherever
its directed
others run to it
the catch the showing of radiating warmth
its foundation is a stage manager
acting alone
in an one man play
for an audience of all
Shakespearean in manner
classic, timeless
with a reoccurring crowd
a light we can all carry
within
over crashing seas
dark oceans
of icy glacial waves
standing over
on inlets & coves
sweeping over life
bringing a haven of radiance
a brilliance of love
Dear Elysia—We Who Own Pets All Have Tales / Heather Frankland
Home after breaking an ankle,
laying on the secondhand futon,
its wire frame and thin mattress,
every turn, an ache, watching DVDs
brought by friends and waiting for visits
although I didn’t have much to say,
other than, I hurt, and, This wasn’t
the way I wanted to leave Las Cruces,
trying to pack with a broken ankle
nearly impossible, and some friends disappeared
when I was no longer self-sufficient—
terrified of curbs with my crutches,
worried about slipping in the shower
unable to balance enough to wash my hair,
my two cats stopped bickering,
stayed close to me. My favorite one
followed me everywhere, cried
at the bathroom door to be let in,
slept with me or near me
every day and night for months.
This favorite cat, Max, a tiny tabby
always would hang from my doorknob,
try to open the door when I
was on the other side. He would greet
me every day that I came home
for over 12 years. Even when his tumor
grew big enough that he couldn’t run
but walked heavily with measured step,
low to the ground, his tail down,
he’d greet me—not for food, but for a pet.
He liked being held like a baby.
When bored, he would push things off edges:
figurines, photos, mugs.
I learned not to put water glasses
on my night stand—he would shove
his tiny head in them to drink
or push them off to break them.
I called him a little bastard and complained,
but I liked even his little bastard-moments.
Max has been gone for almost eight years,
almost as long as I had him;
I try to remember these little moments,
list them, tell stories, and it hurts
less than it once did. So, I understand
you, dear friend, those soul-pets
take a piece of us when they go,
a kind of knowing that they had;
we read them, and they read us.
When pets cross that rainbow bridge,
when you are told that your grief isn’t your grief
when your everyday changes, and you keep
on looking for them to come through the door,
curl on the bed, jump on your feet,
wait patiently or impatiently at the door
to take you for a walk, to take you out
of worries and clouded thoughts
and notice squirrels, rabbits, new plants
all these smells that sing in the rain,
it is an absence that can’t be expressed easily,
a loss we are told to just get over,
rather than recognize the gift we had—
these soul-pets, their life a flicker,
it may have been brief, but still was bright.
Lunar Lunes / John Hanright
Grazing the sky
Slipping Earth’s surly bonds
To meet her
Distance of thousands
A constant companion and friend
Never alone here
Light of night
Guide us toward your vales
Familiar and trodden
Vastness of space
Not empty but completely full
Quintessence of dust
Gazing out windows
Images of your dark side
Blue marble spinning
Take our hands
Greeting humanity’s best friend again
Footprints perfectly preserved
The SAVE Act / Jillian Humphrey
We want to live in a decent country, so in order to vote you’ll need to show
1) proof that at least once in the last ten years you’ve cleaned up someone else’s vomit, preferably a small child’s at 3 am;
OR
2) an official transcript of a conversation held within the last twelve months in which you acknowledged you were wrong and asked for forgiveness; said transcript must be signed and dated by the offended party.
Furthermore, any person who wishes to run for office must meet BOTH of the above requirements in addition to providing
3) a notarized copy of a book report you wrote about a novel you read within the last six months;
4) a certificate of completion for an improv comedy class, accompanied by the teacher’s letter of recommendation; and
5) evidence of a distaste for war.
SHOULDER (5) / Shane Moran
—a Cento (1)
Still sleeping at our feet Time will break what doesn’t bend—
How perfectly each surface was made All so we could call ourselves safe.
Oh body of my woman,
Until the drawing is complete—
Let the record show I want this
Descending toward devotion,
Even down to the youthful screams of play
Round the house I mean to make it The lamp of your arms.
(1) line S from “Despite My Efforts Even My Prayers Have Turned into Threats” by Kaveh Akbar
line H from “The Card Tables” by Jericho Brown
line O from “White thighs, hillocks of whiteness” by Pablo Neruda
line U from “How to Draw a Perfect Circle” by Terrance Hayes
line L from “Cum Sonnet with Friendship” by Gray Davidson Carroll
Line E from “The Flash Reverses Time” by A. Van Jordan
Line R from “from Book of Hours” by Kevin Young
Waiting On Titan's Arrival / Christina Vagenius
The flooring installers are late. Missed the street, the door. The plush weave still waiting
on something hard. Maybe maple, laminate luster. A needled blade of irritation slipped
between the ship’s sails. Shoulders widened at the gate. Who’s there? I miss smoking. The
cigarette hanging from my hand, catching trouble in shades of red, blue, gray stubble. A
collective cloud of consciousness hung between balconies, a soldered eye staring back at
me, taunting the heat. Test me, she says. And means it, always grateful for the fresh start.
The tip to tip touch of camaraderie, breath sunk in chimney’s ash. Legs tangled together,
knotted knees, I’m here for you. A beard of fog buries the frustration. Splintered gorge be-
tween buildings. Resignation stoops. A dumpster vomits gold. Shillings for the fool still
waiting on Titan’s arrival. His promise of rivers and lakes, somehow inhabitable. And us,
all together. Breathing in the same empty air. Eyes closed to where ever we are supposed
to be.
Aripiprazole 1 / Sonya Wohletz
Brain stemming along the edge of Friday night and
ability slips through the cortices. Cue the graveyard, its brackish—
cue the water from the tap that brines flesh on contact.
Purgatory on the kitchen floor while Bacchus
sublimates in Das Kapital. I have a wig. I have two smashed phones. And
I see all that is hidden in this city. I remember it well.
Jackson Ave.: footsteps in the apartment overhead
corporating a terrible future. Its come down: scent of piss and garbage.
Trick question: three people in disagreement? Not a duel.
Jazz trio—a love triangle—Fleetwood Mac c. 1977.
Music splinters in broken glass. Spores a trail to the naked door,
the bottom of the stairs—blades flickering in dumpsters.
The railroad tracks follow. Neighbor girl holding her hands out, crying.
Errant pills wander the street barefoot. You are one of them.
The police take leisure in this—they are also your neighbors in disguise.
Have no interest in domestic. Wicked like distant.
Symbols engraved on easter eggs and you laughing about it.
Carbon dioxide plummets us all towards blue
screen. You become my father. I meditate on Planet Jupiter,
hum irrational numbers to the tune of weevils. Go your own way
while the third eye twists in pain—its blown fuse.
Then morning for the tenth time today and staggering, nauseous.
Stevie Nicks ascends in the crescive view—soul-stained,
careening carousel—grasping at whatever claims to love her most.
