October - Poem 15

Static Metamorphosis   / Lilly Frank

Slowly, you feel the tides inside of your bones shift into something far less malleable. You have a desire for more, something to slap the ruler down upon. You wake from a slumber and never return to the same type of REM. The change is infectious, beginning in the heart, extending to the mind, to the hands, to the vocalization of such feelings. Profound yet glossed over and polished, it is almost as if your body yearns for something that the brain has yet to conceptualize. More than likely, similar to stages of grief, you are stuck with a pang of anger. This frustration, all consuming, chomping down at your throat for each time you begin to speak in betrayal to this instinctual need. In honor of this, silence becomes a familiar comfort. Busy navigating the emotional landscape of which remains uncharted, the daydreaming of this reality grows maladaptive. Now losing a sense of self in between the lines of primal demand and ephemeral desire, you settle into bargaining. You’re making exchanges that align as a compromise of the two, neither feel satiated. If you flip the switch, you may never have the retrospective clarity that weighing your options may offer you. On the other hand, staying stagnant causes the blood in your veins to spoil. Let’s get to the point, you’re wasting time. Wasting days, months, years, etc., etc. sitting inside of a vacuum. How is one to know where authenticity is stored in the body? How is one to discern when circling the drain of your own marooned view?

Turn to Find Out  ​/ Anna Ojascastro Guzon

Whose woods these are I don’t know 
but there’s a sign that says Trespassers 
will be shot on sight. And bullet holes 
embellish the metal plate as a show 

of forthrightness. So I decide to take the path 
that’s headed back to my Airbnb 
because I only need to be told once. Unless 
you say you’ll change and, going forward

you’d welcome trespassers. But 
this isn’t a joke so I’d consider the options
in case of the latter. It’s hot, dry, and I’m 
out of water. But a clear, blue spring 

is on your land and I haven’t skipped ahead 
in my borrowed Choose Your Own Adventure
which is now overdue at the Tesson Ferry Library
by forty-three years, if we’re all confessing. 

If I return it now I’ll owe seven-hundred fifty dollars
which is one thousand times the cost of the book
in 1982. I think I may have loved the book so much
that I didn’t want to bring it back and slide it through

the slot, to possibly never be seen again. Except
for on the second shelf below the fish tank
that bubbles soothingly in regular intervals. 
After months or years I might spot it again.

Adventures in the Amazon but it wouldn’t be mine. 
And by then I might be more intrigued by Where 
the Red Fern Grows. So I’m keeping it simple 
by keeping the Choose Your Own Adventure

Volume 64. I mean, who could let go of that 
exhilaration? So, do I return to my Airbnb 
or do I follow the road past the x-ed out 
Trespassers will be shot on sight sign? 

Thoughts upon receiving my grandmother’s ring / Kathryn Johnson

I fear our sense of object permanence has made us greedy. Ungrateful, we presume that what we can see, we can own. It’s wrong to assume, though, that when the glass of water beside me does not disappear if I step into the next room, that I somehow own the water. We do not truly possess anything. When I sip from the glass, I may consume the water, but its time with my tissues is a short stay. It, and the apple I ate this morning, are brief guests in the house of my body.

My grandmother understood this and taught me the lesson when she passed over her engagement ring in the days after Grandpa’s death. She told me that, after the fire that took their last shared home—their second total loss by flame—she’d found the ring, whole if tarnished, and put it in a dresser drawer. It surfaced again, right before her husband died, the black soot somehow gone, the gold softly shining again. She places the little band in my palm and tells me, “It was so nice just to have the chance to know these things and have them around.”

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

To the distant east, the mountain
ridges frame a blue skyline

with Round Knob summer emerald—
a cell tower, a trail map, a lift shack.

Under the lift towers, ski patrollers belay
from chairs, rehearsing rescue drills.

On the ground, two with a red rope
review an alpine block and tackle—  
backpacks dot the grass, against
a commotion of daisies and goldenrod.

MY MOTHER’S BOYFRIEND COMING HOME FROM THE BAR ON A FRIDAY NIGHT: A CALL AND RESPONSE POEM  / H.T. Reynolds

after “song” by Adrienne Rich &
“Self Portrait” by David Whyte

you’re wondering if I’m sober
if I returned the car keys to the little hook
next to the coffee pot with the shit-stain halo
that you insist won’t come clean

you’re wondering if I fed the dog
before I came inside, wondering if
I’d eaten wherever I was, what size bucket
you’ll need from beneath the bathroom sink
I didn’t get around to fixing yet—I was working
on the coffee pot like you were supposed to

you’re wondering if I still love you
wondering if I used protection tonight like
I promised—but you’re wondering wrong
look into my tomcat eyes—see that blazing
wreath you put there, taste that slurred speech
you leave me with each goddamn day
the way you parade around like you’re better
like you ain’t wondering how much it’ll take
in your bank account to leave—to take your kids
and split, leave me with the bills, the rent
haven’t wondered too far, though—each night
you’re here, sporting my t-shirt rag
cooking your slop, feeding your bastard children

you ever wonder where he is—why he couldn’t stay
wouldn’t stay, was unable to bear staying—huh
you ever wonder that miss queen majesty, holier
than thou mother—I wonder if you ever gave a shit
or if you just spread your legs for a home—hoping to
pop out another ball and chain—any way to keep a man

you’re wondering if I’m sober—
I’m wondering why I’m not drinking now

~~~

I’m not interested in the bullshit you call a story
not interested in the whore you found tonight
the tab you swear you’ll pay me back for
not interested in what time you strolled in
not interested in your ulcerated eyes
your venomous kiss—your agenda

I want to know if you’ll stay for them
and if you do, what kind of bullshit you’ll
put them through—will you bust them up
split open their lip when they turn it against you
will you hold them without breaking ribs
will you remember how he calls you dad
how he holds his hand to yours, measures the space
he longs to grow into—do you see the snuff can
in his six-year-old pocket, the coozy he hides beneath
his bed like the porno mags in your suitcase in the shed
did he ever tell you how he found them—panicked you
were leaving, too—asked questions I couldn’t answer
found your old t-shirt rag, brought it to me—this one
you recognize the stains—do they say you’re staying
if not for me—for him—I can take a punch, but he’s
taken far too many…

I’m not interested in your regrets—I want to know if
you give a shit about them—about him