October - Poem 14

House of Clay  / Lilly Frank

Zinnias and Salvias, both immature seedlings swallowing the soil's nutrients for when the rain decides to come around. In the Pennsylvania sunshine, the sprouts bask despite knowing a root chilling winter is ahead. Lending one another their wisdom, leaf intertwined with leaf, each integral to the growth of the other. Cut from the same garden tool, sharing the same oxygen from the same pot, yet their growth not linear. Worms wrap themselves around their stems, the bees circle the scent awaiting the pollen. With fortitude, cracking the seal of sun rotted dirt, the foundation building in spite of their yesteryear. Nearly coming to a head mid-August, the days begin to feel increasingly shorter. This unsuspecting demise almost never becomes easier to grapple with. The gardener has closed up shop for the season. Disappointed by the lack of fruition, the Zinnia and Salvia return to their seeded beginnings to hibernate in the clay and soil for another long winter. And somehow, Spring always arrives. There is more rain to be shed, there is more sun to be shown, and there is another flower in the very pot in which you have dwelled. Now rekindling their relationship with life and emergence, it is almost as if they had forgotten the time even passed at all.

Arsenal  ​/ Anna Ojascastro Guzon

from Arabic dar as-sina'ah "workshop," literally "house of manufacture," from dar "house" + sina'ah"art, craft, skill," from sana'a "he made.” -Etymonline.com

“That was a push from behind! 
Call the foul, ref!” The drunk man 
was yelling about my child.

“No. It wasn’t!” I yell back 
from across the bleachers not knowing 
to whom I was yelling, other than 

toward the voice of a drunk older man. 
Then, I wonder if he’ll approach me. 
“The player tripped,” I think to myself. 

“I’d bet you a thousand dollars 
my kid didn’t put a hand on that player. 
I clearly saw what happened.” But maybe 

I should walk away. I decide to fold 
my thoughts into a napkin and shove them 
in my purse for another time.

For when people aren’t so angry about
my existence in this country. 
But I don’t know how long I’ll keep my words 

to myself. I’ll have to collect stacks of phrases.
They’ll fill my jean pockets by the end of a game. 
Overflow coffee cups by the end of a Zoom. 

I’ll have to keep them in cloth bins and Tupperware 
boxes with lids to prevent moth holes and mold 
inside the angles and curves of all those letters. 

I’ll become embarrassed by my hoarding. 
Keeping it all just in case some day 
I might need that retort. Or my niece might want 

that line when she’s older, for when a man approaches 
from across the bleachers, or the other side 
of a boardroom, or out of nowhere. 

I might polish the statements, brush off even
the swear words I learned in middle school 

and Filipino idioms I absorbed from my parents

and place them in a brown bag I saved 
from Borders or Left Bank Books. “Use these 
freely,” the card would say. “Love, Tita Anna” 

Twenty Answers  / Kathryn Johnson

The tick-clicking of the tea kettle.
The guaranteed comfort of wool socks.
The yielding crack of a new book’s spine.
The particular and aloof love of a house cat.
The proud foam crown atop a pint of dark beer.
The snapping quality of the darkest chocolate.
The cheeky wink of summer’s first fireflies.
The first bold red leaves on the sugar maple in fall.
The giddy freedom of canceled plans.
The tender promise of new friendship.
The specific solace of lasting friendship.
The caviar-like popping of a ripe blackberry.
The permissible smugness when winning at trivia.
The bubble of amusement when a loved one laughs.
The very existence of cheese.
The prize of satisfaction upon completing a chore.
The sweet moment of waking rested without an alarm.
The unearned triumph when a cat chooses your lap.
The little grief that comes at the close of a good book.
The warm welcome of your own front door.

View from Summit Lodge at Blue Knob, February/ Kimberly McElhatten

Heavy snow clouds drag
across a white, uncut sky

save for a soft black sliver
of Sproul Mountain in the distance—

north by northeast, two crows fly,
black specks against the tireless white—

trees shift from graphite to ash to white,
heavy in hoary frost and rime, and

at the summit, a lift chair
rolls around the bullwheel.

DRESS REHEARSAL  / H.T. Reynolds

after “Untitled” by Francesca Woodman, 1978

I wonder if they’d have listened
to the motion of your skin,
sat with your shared exposures

if you’d have come down softly,
your heels finding the Italian tile,
your bare leg the chair
were you merely rehearsing
your debut,
practicing becoming cold flesh
to compliment
their cold fingers
swapping your body for cash

but you landed twice—
as passing artists often do,
your body of work
hung up on museum walls,
emptied wallets too full
to see you then
when you shared it all—
before you let yourself down

I like to believe you’re defying
gravity, like a gymnast
becoming an iron cross,
a suspended ghost
materializing