November - Poem 26

History Lesson: The Lost Years   / Megan Bell

I

What lessons must I impart to my kids?
And will I have, in fact, parted with them?

When it’s all said and done,
will the well of my soul
have grown feet
and danced in our living room?
Will they have seen my joy?

Will they know where they came from?

II

Will they know I loved their gram
more than breath itself—
but I couldn’t save her,
so I saved myself instead?
She sowed seeds in me which continue to bloom.
Even now, I can't lift a hand
without brushing a flower
she nurtured when I was young.

                        III

Will they know for a while
I didn’t thrive—I survived?
When mom felt her job was done
when I was fourteen,
all I could do was hold on:
wrestling with the sky,
fist clenched in pain
praying, excavating
for something safe, something suitable.
Every hole was shallow and blue. 

                         IV

Will they know life is a dance,
time a thief,
love more actions than words?
That life gives little,
and when it does
it is a gift from God -
they must follow where it leads.

                        V

Will they understand life is unfair
and will dump a mess in your yard?
Mind the piles, keep moving forward.
Try not to get it on your hands;
it wants on everything you own.

                        VI

Will they know they are enough?
That the person beside them
is asking the same questions,
grappling with the same shadows—
but they, too, are enough.
In fact, my precious, perfect loves:
you are more than enough.
You are all my hopes and dreams
encapsulated in tanned legs
and blue eyes that reflect the summer sky—
the same eyes your gram had.
Her parents never told her she was enough.
I pray she knew in the end.

                        VII

I do wonder if you hear my voice, anymore.
I talk too much, maybe—
but who else will tell you
the truths that marked me
in this holy, capricious life?
Who else remembers
what was given and taken
during the lost years?

VIII

I know the scent of my ancestors.
They marked the walls
with their piss and spit.
Smell that? I ask them.
It’s whiskey, lies, and money.
Pawn shops, cigarettes, and money.
Piggybanks, food, and money.

I could scrub the scents
from your path,
but what good would it do?
This road may stink of weeds
and dirty denim,
crooked lines
and curving feelings—
but I will walk it with you,
hand in hand,
pointing out the minefields.
These are our cave carvings,
our chapel hymns.
Pay attention!

        IX

Some men want only
to watch the world burn—
and you’re related
to half of them.
Chaos makers:
bewitching, shapeshifting.
Pave a path away
from these ancestors.
Don’t follow the jagged, rutted road
that fills your belly with dust.
Find sustenance elsewhere.

Trust this:
better to stand alone
among raggedy weeds,
sustained by earth,
than stand among filthy men
stained by dirty deeds.

        X

Kids, you are my benediction. 

I wrestled these demons so you might one day fly.

Possible Endings  / Alison Lake

It is possible
I will awake one day
and not suck in
a panicked breath,
not feel dread
at its possibilities.

It is possible
I will arise to song,
the birds I need to learn
the names of as they welcome
the new day’s light.

I will arise and not tremble
as I turn away from
my daughter at her school,
my husband to his job,
the news on TV.

I will wake not in fear,
not waiting for the worst,
but thankful that I again
get to live this day,
the gratitude seeping
well past the afternoon.

And all the small catastrophes,
the numerous ways we are being
closed in, curtailed, silenced,
will be like a dream I almost
cannot recall, and glad of it.

trying to be go[o]d II / Maya Cheav

1. how do you resurrect a six-year-old boy from the dead? 

1. call 911

2. resuscitate with all your might 

3. trap yourself in a  time loop until you get it right

4. scream at the people responsible for all of his suffering, even if that’s you. 

2. how could you have prevented this? 

1. I’m responsible. I’m responsible. I’m responsible. I’m responsible. I’m responsible. 

2. I was supposed to be his caretaker. I’m supposed to be the one who looks after him. 

3. make sure to read the allergen label on the cookie jar next time

4. there won’t be a next time. 

3. does clay’s death mean anything? 

1. yes 

2. no

3. sometimes bad things happen to good people. 

4. does anything have meaning? 

4. are you sure about your previous answer? 

1. no

2. no

3. no 

4. yes. do not ask again. 

ghazal for home / Jada D’Antignac

we know soul music, soul cooking, soul laughs.
we were raised up on this bright green grass.

mastering code switching by ten or so,
we grew in multiples through this green grass.

most at school did not have my skin but we
all owned color back at home on the grass. 

home wasn’t uppity or nothing high.
we know ‘bout a drought, here on this grass.

wondering what the rest of the world is
about—J, you were made you on this grass. 


Notes from the Field, mcmxxv /  D.C. Leach

a list of birds seen in St. James’s Park:
            Egyptian goose, moorhen, coot, pigeons (many colors), Canadian geese,
rogue wiener dog, parakeets, Grue—

the afternoon has gone someplace—

I pretend to be an owl made of saffron—

my heart is stuffed with moss and dried leaves—

the universe falls apart. nakedness is dead in its branches—

in Welsh, the beginnings of words mutate depending on what precedes them—

I mutate in collocation with you—

I’m watching ladybugs live their lives through a screen.
            they call their mothers, have affairs, forget the milk
            on grocery runs, this one has terminal cancer but tells
            no one. I’m pretty sure I’d tell my wife—

the nuns are in the yard again watching the cherry blossoms sail around—

I’ve taken to photographing all the plants in my neighborhood growing in hardy places:
tomato plants from sidewalk cracks, mulberry trees from gutter drains, crepe myrtles
and nightshade from potholes. oh, look, it’s me. I’m sitting on a cedar bench. I’m
smiling—

have you ever removed classified information from a classified environment?
            no, but I think the secrets have displaced something from me—

I learn the roses’ names: focus, success, persistence
            and work to forget them. too many tasks. too much
            dirty laundry—

the dishwasher eats a little more of the color
            each time off the flowers on this Japanese
            stone-ware cup—

everything in the late, bright morning, and the lone fly
            on its back, cold on the white windowsill—

Brooding  / Dawn McGuire

When young
my song
fought death

Now old
death nests
in it

hatching
little 
deaths

Shoebox Diorama / Samantha  Strong Murphey

I carry groceries inside. There are girls in places. 
They walk for miles, water buckets balanced across 
their backs. I decide what everything means before I 
feel it. My daughter grabs my face, whispers into my
mouth. I name today’s pain. I call it transcendent.
There is a setting for bedding, one for delicates.
It’s not until I sit in the movie theater, that I remember
why I’ve heard of Aurora, Colorado. All evening I leave
little piles of little belongings on the stairs. Ribbons sashed
around the bellies of all the trees in the neighborhood are sashed
around the bellies of all the trees in the neighborhood so no one
forgets what happened last summer. The dog pulls me past them.
I am baffled, now that I’m allowed to want, how much I do.
The scenes. They fit inside the shoebox. I cannot feel
the story beyond its edges. I scan my own house for
emergency exits. I can leave the poem at any time—