May - Poem 30

May 30

Written By Kirsten Miles

Salt Lines / M. Anne Avera

June glistened into focus
out of spring. It gave us
wet, thick air, like a blanket
over the damp earth.

I was six, stretching every
boundary over the ripe
green yard, every azalea
perfect for plucking.

I was the grade-school
dictator of the land, and
that day, my target sat
below a green canopy.

I pulled the elephant ear
back and took it within
my palm. The shock of yellow
writhed—a slug spreading

itself out onto me. I took
it inside on a styrofoam
plate to do my work.
All fun and games.

Tiny stars of Morton’s
sea salt speckled its back.
The thing could have cried
and I still would have done it.

It fully shriveled when
I heaped more on. I poked it
until it died, then dumped
the whole project down

into the garbage disposal.
To hurt with a laugh
is mankind’s gift to the young,
the fragile, the effervescent.

I already had the vein of cruelty
(passed down from my kin)
laced into my being,
flowing down my throat.

Under this Ol’ Brim / Desirae Chacon

where every storm passes over this
brim
I have conquered
where every lie that tried to break me down
i rode straight through it
through every tear
that fell from the heavens
and every lightening
strike of stricken heart break
i have overcome
in every waiting season
for reunion
i saddled
for the return
through every snowfall & spring rain
i bridled
to continue on
because in the end
of the trail
i rode
Victoriously
on

Blackberries in the Ditch / Heather Frankland

Blackberries in the ditch
ripe, sweet blackberries
crowded in the ditch
sharing space with poison ivy
empty beer cans and yellow jackets
cigarette butts with lipstick stains.
Did the city spray already?
Can we still eat these
blackberries in the ditch?

I hold several in my hand
roll them around my destiny lines
they leave their impact—
so tender their skins,
surely, I can pop them in my mouth,
Did the city spray already?
Did I bush past poison ivy?
My ankle is starting to itch,
but it all seems worth it
for blackberries in the ditch.

We trick ourselves into believing
that the city didn’t spray
that we are no longer allergic
to poison ivy and perhaps—
it isn’t really poison ivy—
it’s Virigina Creeper, surely,
it’s some kid’s science project
these blackberries would make
a nice breakfast topping
we can bring them back for the others
if only they make it to breakfast,
instead we are eating
and pretending we aren’t eating
these delicious, plump
blackberries in the ditch.

Can I click my heels
and call home back to me,
summer days stained
with sweet nostalgia
at least for one last bite
of these dirty beauties
the earned taste
my suffering ankles
the poison ivy
for blackberries in the ditch.

Can you imagine us leaving
these blackberries
to be enjoyed
by someone else’s mouth?
Or worse yet—
to shine and tempt and die
because the city may
have sprayed this ditch?
Like ruby red slippers
they sparkle; they glow
but when I click them together
will they take me back home?

Love Song for Anon / John Hanright

I don’t even know your name;
On my breath are your lips, smoky;
Yet I want you all the same…

You grow on me, so I can’t be blamed
For what I want to do to your body;
And I don’t even know your name

Your hair I’ll grasp, and exclaim
Something stupid like “baby”
Yet I still want you all the same…

My insatiable appetite you’ll tame,
My caged heart you’ll free;
Yet I don’t even know your name…

You have me coming for more, maimed
By Eros’s arrow, yet I can see
I really do want you all the same…

But I suppose that’s the name of the game,
To experience so much so easily;
And though I don’t even know your name,
I really do want you all the same…

silence / Jillian Humphrey

A spoon set down without care.
A ball bouncing
against the side of the garage.
Every door opening and closing
and opening — someone trying
to find me with a complaint
or request. A shout that means nothing
wakes up the dog.
The TV, volume 25.
YouTube, no headphones.
Someone making popcorn.
A timer.
The blender.
A fight — who needs
the bathroom the most
and for how long.
Loud music.
Dropped keys.
Ice cubes.
The fridge left open.
A cupboard slammed.

I buy myself
a small AM/FM radio
for listening
to summer baseball
outside. I cannot bring myself
to turn it on. I look at it and think
that would be nice,
but first I’d have to move out.
Some day one of us will.
When I go to turn the dial,
will I be able to bear it?

Chest / Shane Moran

Now, we won’t count the years since we graduated
only say it has been over five, or a decade—
or, if we are lucky, more than twenty.

Williamsburg is not the same, though it is still
my preferred diorama of that American myth
that once tasted like caramel-covered Virginia

peanuts in the fall. Last night, Honeycutt told me
what he appreciates about Europeans is that they know
how to enjoy tobacco products. He told me there were days

namely the 70s, where if you were a good-looking white guy
you could get any job—off that alone. He was a typist
for Ginsberg, ‘cause he was handsome and could type.

He said this after reading a poem criticizing
the old man who wants us to go back to that time,
where being a man meant something, meant being capable,

and earning was something that came after
taking a chance. This is also the thinking of Napoleon
Hill. Have an idea and make it happen—get off

your lily-white ass. I never sat for too long
on my young black ass. Never knew an opportunity,\
I wouldn’t call, exploitative. Never knew I was handsome

until I became grown, until my mother
stopped calling me sheep’s ass, once I learned to keep
my hair cut and walk straight up.

This is the thing about Williamsburg—
that I crave. Memory of how we used to be hopeful,
us men—memory of how we had something to give,

even if we hadn’t yet earned it. America is the love
child of five dozen cute young men in small clothes—
who said they'd earn it, once they got the chance

who could make a chance out of dust,
who were not watched on hidden cameras,
whose debts did not follow them to the moon.

This morning, one of my old deans called and asked me why
I think the men of my class are having such a hard time—
we’re still figuring out what there’s left to build, I said

—and what’s left to build it out of.

Upon Hearing The News Of The New Garden Wing For Intensive Care Patients / Christina Vagenius

I hold your hand and whisper see —
the body knows
the difference between birdsong and beeps,
joy as it climbs the eyelid, peers over the edge.
Saddled with wind whipped hair,
says, We’re here. Hands lifted, sleds down
slip and slide cheeks —
the body knows
the difference between a chair and a bench,
planted under the bosom of a River. Feral birch skin
peeling away the apparent. Names carved lightly beneath legs.
A bouquet of hands, variety tender. Plumber, Painter, Bread Maker
Stems pulled tight, together. —
The body knows
the difference between a breath and an incubator.
The strum of a lung filled with banter and belief. Helium sighs
lifting the whole of a heart, strings untangled. Go slow. A plea,
to the sky herself Do we have to go?
Can't we stay just a little bit longer.

Kitezh #3 / Sonya Wohletz

After Anna Akhmatova and Werner Herzog

When you arrive at the miraculous city of Kitezh, you can gain insight into the nature of your soul. This city once stood on the banks of Lake Svetloyar. That was centuries ago. When the envoys of the combatant appeared, the residents implored God for protection. He answered, consigning the city to the bottom of the waters where they repose in splendor. The people believe this city really existed. You may catch a glimpse of the city in winter perhaps, or it may rather be at night in late spring. It may be this very night. May twenty-ninth, year two thousand and twenty-six. It may be that it happens as you write the words of your own pilgrimage. You may hear the voices of martyred children singing within walls of ice. Its apples may split and reveal the face of a saint. And you may see angels walking; they may pause from time to time and appear to exchange between themselves prayers of the Old Believers. You must follow them until you cannot follow any further. You may collapse in ecstasy like a tattered banner. These sorts of things are expected. Your limbs will certainly transform into long, thin candles. Your mouth becomes ripe with the pitch of the endless birch forest. Mosquitos begin to speak to you in a new language. You must remember their words; these are the words of the angel Gabriel, though they may not be meant for you. You may see a tree stump, or a rock, and make your prayers as to a blessed shrine. You will return here, from time to time; I predict that one time (one time) will not be enough for you. And the mourners will follow you, and they will not take you by the hand even as you ask them for comfort, nor will they offer you clothing when they find you in your hospital gown, unwashed and shriveled with confusion. But the innocent monk—he may offer you some bread and pray for your soul. And you will eat this bread and remember again the face of your mother as a child. You see: the soul is forever striving to behold the sunken city of Kitezh.

take example the city of kitezh the city consigned

to the depths of fathomless lake

i am seeking a sunken vision warm houses in red clay

the guttered orchard trench of my dreams

through pillars of smoke forever striving

to behold sunken

city of kitezh city the envoi batu khan or was it you

implore envoi to the fathomless lake svetloyar

choirs chase me like insects

godcrawl the lake blood and ice of innocent things

perhaps bowing to shrubs

slither across the ice

the future sunken fortune of faith

battered in pure sound

and catch a glimpse pilgrims slipped in strange and fragrance

of pitch as an old woman tattered knees

a banner of ecstasy forevermore

crawling crawling crawling in blessing

Kirsten Miles