November - Poem 25
Dear Mary, / Megan Bell
I find you again at dawn while rambling with Scout in summer woods.
The deep dew which formed overnight drips slowly from wild weeds with ease,
wetting the ground and us.
As Scout prances along the rumpled path, his whole body vibrates with questions.
His curious nose hoping what's hidden might be revealed.
Mary, we did not know one another so you might think it odd I invite you on our morning sojourns.
Your sacred book tucked in my back pocket -
your word and testament, worn out, creased,
cherished as a handwritten letter.
I make no apologies for wanting to be your friend.
Lingering, I let go the leash of days picking wild blackberries,
listening for the twitters and garbles of the Goldfinch.
Your words always at the edge of my mind, come into sharp relief,
as we cross the threshold into nature's temple.
The poem was made not just to exist, but to speak - to be company.
It was everything that was needed when everything was needed.
So, I say, thank you, Mary, for the company.
How Not To Hate / Alison Lake
It isn’t easy,
this task, or rather,
this practice
of again and again
relinquishing the hate
that oozes up
each time
you see a
rebel flag, or hear
someone spout off
another untruth,
for the people yelling
slurs, or the way
some men cover
women with their sticky
lust; toys to play with
then throw aside.
The hot bile
of hatred so easily
rises in the throat.
It takes time
and repetition to lance
the infection, let
the poison weep
from unclenched hands.
Over and over
you must try
to let the feelings
come then go,
like rain falling
in late fall or early
spring, washing
as it does
all that corrupts
into the ground,
to be filtered
clean by years
of sinking through
layers of time,
back to the aquifer
of peace.
self portrait as the atlas moth's burden / Maya Cheav
I am pipe dreams stuffed into skin, / belief personified, / feeling electrified, / bridled with an anger that persists. / one that stands on the backs / of centuries of people born into the wrong body, / war-torn survivors / ducking through open fire / and tiptoeing through minefields / among the banyan trees, / people who have been punished / for loving wrong, / for dressing wrong. / an anger that is always there / because I’m too much girl / and not enough girl / and too much boy / and not enough boy, / because there are people in this world who would rather kill themselves / than have a child like me / and if you think that is an exaggeration, / be grateful you have never heard those words. / I have an anger in pursuit of justice / for me / and for you, / for the black and brown bodies / that belong to those I know / and those I don’t / because their suffering / is tangled up in mine. / my love drags behind me, / like viscera dripping into the dirt / even when there’s a hole in my stomach / leaking out intestines and blood. / no gun will bring me to the ground. / no weapon formed against me / will leave me without hope. / the world burns a black hole / into my throat / culling a scream that makes silence crumble / as though it were moth wings under mortar and pestle.
“maybe if I were more oppressed like you, I’d make art as good as yours.” / or maybe I’m just hungrier than you.
unknown / Jada D’Antignac
i want to write about things i haven’t done
feelings i haven’t felt
spaces i haven’t gone
people i haven’t met
i can feel the distance
growing shorter and shorter
there are emotions creeping
anxious to blanket my heart
there’s a room with a seat
ready to welcome me
there’s a hand nearby
waiting to shake mine
i can feel this newness inside of me
screaming to be born
i want to write about this
yearning for the unknown
this longing for a place
i know i belong
76 Dog Salute (#?) by Tom Everhart Hangs by the Window / D.C. Leach
Baseball / Dawn McGuire
From a little ball of cells, these doublings
unleash a disorder
that makes sense only to math.
You forget tenth-grade log equations
as your metastatic headache doubles
and crowded little neoplastic sideshows
start to consume you.
The hatchet-faced nurse working overtime
says your pain is out of proportion
"to the real estate involved".
Your perspective?
Falling naked
down an endless steam vent.
But just until the morphine kicks in.
Then up through the vent, you're a little kid
holding out a glove that eats your hand—
a sweaty borrowed glove
from a sweaty borrowed dad.
Wrigley Field is transfixed:
Sammy Sosa in the batter’s box
with a 3-seamed sphinx spinning chest-high
|right over the plate.
Even now, Sosa’s homer
is heading toward your glove.
You have all the time you need
You have all the time in the world.
Oh, World without end—
Bad Prophet / Samantha Strong Murphey
he inserts himself into dreams
glowing like a cave worm.
when they wake, he’s glowing
in real life. he reads blank napkins
like maps, tells fortunes from familiar
lines in movies they can’t quite place.
he presses all the buttons
in the elevator. when the doors open
on every floor, the people waiting think
he knew they were waiting. amazed,
they get inside.
