May - Poem 4
Grandma died thinking that I believe in God / M. Anne Avera
but I do believe in:
hand-sewn and smocked Sunday school dresses; peach cookies with water; paper cups; princess hats with tulle on the end; the mixolydian scale; a baby’s first tooth
jellybeans on a mountain that we dusted with salt; low blood sugar that shakes my hands up, puts sweat in my underarms; exhaustion on a stranger’s face; kudzu; the late-season yellow jacket
the first cigarette I ever smoked, crouched on my best friend’s back porch; her mother’s fake leather purse and her little brother that they nicknamed Cheese; the thing, shared, menthol rubbing its nose to our clothing
being from somewhere that considers covering trees with toilet paper a tradition; that pastor that paid my parking ticket for me; wishbones; mathematics and orgasms, which feel the same
hiding under the bushes at my house to know that someone would want to find me; studying the Bible for an essay; mountains made from molehills; the nice silverware, plates we never use
faith from a mustard seed; hot dogs and sparklers and wondering if something is worth celebrating; knowing that I found God with a capital G in that church choir I joined where there were only two other people; voices combined into one living thing, hanging in the air
that God is not just in beauty, but also in humanity.
Exhaling / Desirae Chacon
i crave connection
the kind thats stable
the kind that i can dive into
the kind that has a
safety net of infinity
the kind that i never have to lose
like smoke…
through my fingertips
like dark matter
its there
but i feel empty
i feel lonely
loneliness comes to sit beside me
like an old friend
im slightly uplifted inside from familiarity
but reluctant to say hello again
like another friend i may lose
like mist at the noon of day
i breathe
& exhale
collective memories of nostalgia
come flooding in
like water over
a mosaic of tiles
there’s clarity
yet why is my heart always so heavy
i have no expectations
just a pure genuine soul
i can weave a tapestry with
for this life
somebody i can see in the next
Instead of That Thing You Should Be Doing / Heather Frankland
The rabbit holes of gardening tips—
Yes, you need to start your garden
with a special cell block tool;
it looks super easy. You can find it
on Amazon, and yes, you need
to learn how to dehydrate herbs.
You once tried hanging them up
by their stems on clothesline
over your sink, and only the thyme
turned out once or twice.
The rest—moldy leaves—
You’d never make
a good witch or herbalist.
Yes, what you need is a dehydrator
you hope you have the counterspace.
And then, what about those deer?
Not those that you warn your loved ones
about in the Midwest—a sign of pure love—
drive safely and watch out for the deer,
but those mule deer of the Southwest,
those stubborn squat deer with long ears
those deer who aren’t supposed
to like your green onions
but somehow do. The ones
that eat young tomato plants—those
impulse buys not even out
of their impulse-buy pots.
Study all of the plants that will naturally
deter them, and while you are at it—
study the plants that will naturally deter
ants and other unwanted pests—
you have the time!
And what about that one actress
you saw in that one show you liked—
you know the one, supposedly
she once was engaged to a man
who stood her up at the altar.
Imagine that! Beautiful, talented actress
stood up; that must’ve caused damage
never-mind the fact that she moved on
and that he moved on,
and that their careers moved on,
or that it happened over a decade ago
it’s important; you need to know!
While you are at it—maybe write a letter
to a friend or two; people love to get letters,
and you used to love writing them.
I mean you can’t be charming
because well, you are on a deadline.
But you can try to use clearer-than-your-normal
handwriting, and you can sign it
with a heart. Go ahead and color the heart—
after all you have markers, you should use them.
And then, only then, will you sit down again
to do what you are supposed to do—
that is, after making coffee, tea, popcorn,
wondering if you should make Kool-Aid
or open that bottle of wine that you are saving
for something special; surely, this day,
when you are avoiding what you are supposed to do
is that special day. How can it not be?
But maybe it would be best to drink
when done with this dreaded task
and not even thinking about this dreaded task,
and not even avoiding this dreaded task
that drains you; think about that for a while.
The clock ticks; night comes, your brain hums,
and slowly begins to focus on what needs to be done,
but first, there is one more thing you need to research.
I saw a seagull / John Hanright
I saw a seagull
Spearing a black-clawed crab
Today
I looked disgusted
Then I walked away
For there was nothing I could do
So speaks the wind.
Before the Guests / Jillian Humphrey
after Kate Baer
In the end it’s who we loved —
and if they don’t love us back
we can get a dog
become a mystic
learn poetry
eat while we
look at our phones
live as an exile
on the Island of Patmos
or the internet
tell everybody
we are the beloved
recite it over and over
put it in the canon
after all — an angel
may come and ask us
to write something
down, something like
I am the one God sees
I am the one God hears
I am the one
on this lonely island
God loves
Mooneesha / Shane Moran
Most Thursdays at Phoebe's,
I see her, hair straight—
sometimes dyed an unnatural color,
her make-up, dark and trad.
In mostly black—she wears
a bikini top with little shorts and stockings
or a striped romper, or a striped crop top
and mini skirt—always a leather jacket.
When she finally notices me, her big lips—
lined—half-moon to reveal
her gapped front teeth—she brings
her hands to her chest, leans forward.
If I ask her something, she responds
in one of three ways—
a girlish nod—for a gift,
angry eyes—for an error
or a smile—and the touch of her hand
on my shoulder—if I remember
what she told me in the weeks before:
Her love for anime. Rock music.
How she dances for a living. How she left
everyone behind in Georgia—her parents,
her accent. How she wants me to lead her
through the busy bar—without touching.
She says she doesn’t do coke, but always wants
to know if I have some. Alternative, she calls
herself longing for the attention of white boys.
Her dark skin, well-lotioned, shines
in the yellow light of the back porch,
where she sits alone, and those boys seem
to ignore her, as her big brown eyes, marked
with stars, follow them—wet, alive.
Once, lost in new steel eyes, one hand
on his pale neck, she swatted a shot out
of my hand. When she felt the tequila
splash on her uncovered skin, she turned
to me—she kissed my gold-brown cheek.
Her fingers slipped from my face as I walked
out. Calling a car back to the Bronx, I wiped
away the bruise of her tar-pit black lipstick.
Resonance / Christina Vagenius
I try to change the filter on the espresso machine
while the sun burns smoke signals inside my eyes, while
the robin throws herself against the window for the fourth time,
folds her mate within a wing, buried beneath a puddle of sky.
The rain stops coming, turns the dew into the surface of the moon, tears
like tiny craters frozen against the lying glass. I long for the unhurried,
the slow, molten pour of ancestors down my back when I ask, how’d you do it?
Across the field, a spray of lacquered feathers lifts from the quaked ground,
splits breath into pause, a pulse quickens somewhere.
Field Notes, Luhr Beach / Sonya Wohletz
5.3.2026
fir branches mewing in the breeze—eagles huddled on mudflats preening—carpets of algae pour into
Nisqually Reach—the tide turns its back again—glassy plumes of inland sea unroll and read out the sky
like a script—two police officers with tattoos and full gear search for a man they say is in
distress—somehow the word fulgent sneaks in along the margins—hazelnut branches clip the view into
neat angles—pear blossoms proud of the smooth bark—Oregon Grape flushing in the heat—two
students with a small machine to study photosynthesis—this other plant is Salal and it belongs here too
they explain—children with armfuls of dirt and bark chips—whirring of the lawn mower again—more
birds with glossy wings—answer me please if you love me says the screen—plane slowly ripping the
membrane of afternoon overhead—rabbit blasts through garden mesh—the world belongs on this side
of Sunday says one bird—prove it another responds—
