October - Poem 13
Domesticated / Lilly Frank
The housecat is unbothered by his own existence. Shamelessly, he leaps from windowsill to couch, and so on and so forth. Coming as he pleases, retreating at his leisure, he moves strictly in his own interest. With the intention to survive in comfort, the housecat acts in his own self-interest nearly all the time.
When a housecat senses himself dying, he retires himself to underneath of the bed, behind the closet door, anywhere he can find himself isolated. Self-preservation at its finest. Stillness and peace even in death, is something to not be forsaken by the housecat.
Morning Routine / Anna Ojascastro Guzon
Do you remember observing
heels and the hems of skirts swaying
above the sidewalk, freshly rinsed
in the morning so pails of lilies, roses
and pink and blue-dyed carnations
could be placed in rows to be
sold and brought home or to work
to brighten a lunchroom table?
The red and black graffiti embellishing
the metal roll-up doors of the Loop
were tucked away, out of the sun
to reveal a relief of pastels. Even
the middle-of-the-night elements
appreciated the patina of day.
All that’s nice / Kathryn Johnson
They say girls are made of sugar and spice. We both know that
is a lie. I remember making Barbie and Ken kiss
while forcing his plastic hand to cup her fleshless breast.
You lusted for the bottle, tiny and pink. You stole it
from the girl next door, then closed your bedroom curtains tight.
You sat in a dark room so no one could spy as you played.
And when the guilt grew so uncomfortable you could feel it
like a lump, you buried the toy bottle in the backyard—
right at the property line, as close as you could
bring yourself to returning it outright. You tell me this
while we wait for your first treatment to begin.
The lump has found the way to your breast, real flesh this time.
The nurse brings you pills in a little plastic cup.
So, I find myself wondering if they taste sweet on your tongue.
Sweet like sugar or maybe sweet like crabmeat. How could I not?
Today of all days, when we sit together in a bright room considering
what we and our maladies are made of. Maybe the stories we share
about our childish sins are a confession, an absolution to cleanse us
while we pray for a cure. If it helps, I can bundle up our stories and
carry them outside. This time, I will be the one to bury them
deep in the yard, so that, come spring, we can watch them sprout
and bloom with flowers I hope to have the chance to share with you.
View from the Summit Lodge at Blue Knob, November / Kimberly McElhatten
Live edge hemlock fades
gray on a lift shack, and
down slope, above the snow guns,
lift chairs hang, their silver shapes
made plain by the black,
barren trees beyond—
a fading sun pushes magenta
into the western valleys—
at the horizon, the mountains fade,
cobalt to coral to rosy quartz—
to a dolomite sky.
APOPHENIA PT. I / H.T. Reynolds
This memory is pristine, exactly like
a scene captured in a snow globe.
~ “Little Senses” by Kathryn Johnson
my father fashioned me a boxer
at two my opponent,
my older brother—
he resisted the padded
gloves but I leaned in—
proud daddy
had a dollar on the underdog
so I broke my brother’s nose.
I smiled at my daddy—
felt his backhanded
coaching,
nobody told me
to hold back
wish he held back
the scar along my skull
rattled-brain
concussive love
he loved me— right
they said I took a tumble—
was lucky to be alive
to survive my father
He retired to his bedroom
left me
with his sister
to clean me up,
my blushing skin
she watches—
giggling hands
let me in, hush,
she found her way
in.
Let me in
to her secret
fear
man
he has the sharper
teeth
but woman
she was born softly
withdrawn claws
‘til they’re ready
‘til palm to palm
for prey—
she was ready—
I prayed
the snow fell all weekend
trapped us behind glass
through the window
through the window
God is through the window—
there—watching
pick me up, mother
this home is shaking
I am shaking
my brother is shaking
we are shaking…
snow collects along the pane
crystalline from the haze of the dark
freezes us together ‘til our morning rematch
