November - Poem 6

Monthly Visitor / Megan Bell

Let me tell you about turning blue.
About turning moody and brooding, 
body split open like an overripe melon, insides spilling out.  
Back aching for something I can't name.

Voice slipping 
                down    
                    down            
                        down

my raw throat. I swallow hot thoughts with coffee and buttery bread.  
It's best not to speak. Words can cut and my tongue is a weapon. 

Sturdy timbers that house my insides flex and bend 
                               blown
                                   blown                                
                                      blown
about by the wind. My body reacts to the racket. I'm lit up. I'm let down. 

Scattered, rearranged, five senses shortchanged. 
Are my toes breathing? My nose dreaming? 
My hands fly open, begin screaming. My rhythm is off. I wonder whose body this is. 

For now, I must remember:
The carpets might be dirty, but our house is solid. 
There are four hearts beating within my chest. 
This too shall pass.  

Thoughts on Bonfire Night / Alison Lake

      “Remember, remember the fifth of November…”

bone
+ wood
+ flame
bonfire

Bones of the sacrifice
Wood of the trees
Sacrifice of the soul

Life sent up
in smoke
in gratitude

Blessings
given back

romulus & remus / Maya Cheav

floating down the tiber river 
in their basket trough, 
bundled together 
in cloths of wool and linen, 
the orphaned twins 
landed in a crook 
beside the fig tree. 
they went on crying 
for their mother, 
their bawling and fussing
calling the animals of rome
to their side. 
a woodpecker,
a dire wolf. 
lupa, the she-wolf,
took them into her care, 
suckling them, 
tending to them,
till they could be strong, 
for there was love 
beyond the body, 
love beyond species, 
and so the sons of mars,
the sons of rhea silvia,
cried no more. 

hindsight / Jada D’Antignac

anger on tongues,
passion in eyes.

dressing emotions in avoidance,
wearing selfishness in lies.

it was supposed to go differently.
how could you interrupt the plans?

i dont know how to miss you any other way,
any softer, without intensity.

maybe you are my harmful prayer.
maybe this is the way God warns me.

sometimes you never know how much you needed an out, 
until you’ve set yourself free.

Differently-Abled* Anaphoric Run / Laurie Fuhr

There is
a run on pontoons, 
a run on hoses, 
a run on walking, 
a run on noses, 

a run on blind faith in fake, an I Wanna 
Run to You Bryan Adams 
runtime, for tacos Make a
Run for the Border but watch the wall, 
Run DMC sing Walk This Way. of what may
 
run, I nearly crawl; if these genes didn't 
run in the family, could I win the bank 
run? markets go bust: blood
runs cold-to-icy. There was a 

run on fame and I did
run towards it; trade skates for a pen &
run towards the end of the page, my little
runaway Uniball rolls, 

run 
run
run 
run, run
runaway (hear 
run-on Musitron solo), still
running against ease, the wind, the crowd.

*The poet has double hip dysplasia and cannot run.

Resenting Feeling Clever and It’s Sleeting on November 22nd / D.C. Leach

Brilliance runs her fingers through my hair on occasion
the occasion being
her partner is in Greece
and my lips, she says,
pair nicely with an Argentine Malbec.

And in the morning when I wake alone
bed cold and the pillows
I pull in close to feel something make me feel
somehow colder, I walk
naked to the sunlit bathroom, decant
my voice in the mirror, take
clippers to my scalp
and watch as chestnut hair
falls like wine diamonds
to the tile floor—

Kentucky Haibun #3: Rust Theory / Dawn McGuire

Billy’s theory is that rust can remember things.
When the Buick’s front bumper
pings at dusk,
it’s “that possum that time.”

Diane says Billy needs a girlfriend or a prescription.

“Everything knows something,” he says, “even the timing chain.”

The driver’s side door groans when it opens like an old man getting up.

Inside, the vinyl seats are too hot to touch.
Billy reaches for a rusted lunch pail in the back and yells 
“Ow! fuck!” as his fingers burn.

“Fourth grade,” he says.

He sets it back down without opening it.
“I don’t want to know what’s inside. Just want it to know I’m here.”

          the Buick groans again
          something I should’ve said
          I should’ve said

Easy / Samantha  Strong Murphey

It is easy to fling the spool
once you’ve found the end of the string.

Frayed origin: sex is a cross
to slog up a hill, unless

you’re a man married virtuously.
Then birthright. Then blessing.

The therapist asked if I’d even considered
what I like for once—

unwound, string-bound wrists,
still spinning—she said you know,

sex is a lot of things. Turns out,
I like a lot of things—