October - Poem 20
Lingering Heat / Lilly Frank
Often longing over the plagued thought of, maybe in another lifetime. Sickeningly, I stir my coffee and swallow it down, choking on the reminder that this is the only lifetime that I truly have, tangibly at least. I feel time passing through me as if losing something that I was supposed to have; I feel myself keeping you at arm’s length to avoid the potential of losing you altogether. Everything I have ever loved has never truly been mine - accepting this like gripping the blade of a sword, I chew through my tongue.
You sit across from me unsuspecting of my genuine awe. It feels sappy, really, the way I wish I could spill my guts. The way I wish I could explain to you in every single detail why I feel life brought us together and made us whole humans to share this moment and every other. I could have been an oak tree, or a caterpillar. I could have been born in Rome or a small town in Scotland, but instead, I sit here with you on this couch and feel as if there was a reason I was put here.
Love transcends time. Love transcends this lifetime and the next if you really think about it, and in a way, I have found that more than anything, love is the purpose for moving forward through each of them.
Range / Anna Ojascastro Guzon
The queens were dancing.
The youth were playing football on the shore.
The parents were home with their dog.
The children were praying.
The teachers were doing their jobs.
The family was sheltering.
The executive was walking to work.
The influencer was speaking to his audience.
Blessed are they, full of sorrow.
Blessed are they, the lowly ones.
Blessed are they, who show mercy.
The children were praying.
The parents were home with their dog.
Blessed are they, who hunger and thirst.
The family was sheltering.
The queens were dancing.
Blessed are they, full of sorrow.
The youth were playing football on the shore.
The teachers were doing their jobs.
The children were praying.
The influencer was speaking to his audience.
The executive was walking to work.
Blessed are they, who show mercy.
The family was home with their dog.
Blessed are they, the lowly ones.
The queens were dancing. The family was sheltering.
Blessed are they, who hunger and thirst.
The youth were playing football on the shore.
Genus: Lymantria / Kathryn Johnson
I once found myself
in the red light district of Denver
during a sightseeing drive around Boulder.
I possess a special talent for losing my way.
I have enjoyed watching
moths swarm the porch light.
They are a little lost pilgrims, fumbling
to find their way. With their powdery wings
and furry stoles, I envy their style and
have sympathized with what I thought was
their inability to navigate when faced
with a bright distraction. I was sad
to learn that we are not the same.
Moths perpetually orient themselves
in an instinctual act. They go to the light,
to the flame, as a ready substitute
for the moon or the sun. It’s breathtaking really.
They always know how to find their way.
I want to find my own
light, a personal fire,
that will let me do the same.
untitled / Kimberly McElhatten
Red and yellow flecks
eddy in the autumn wind—
artifacts of June.
FORGIVE US MOTHER OF EXILES / H.T. Reynolds
My God—what have they done to you…
—Kurt Vonnegut, Slaughterhouse-Five
she keeps the bullets between her
cheeks and her vacated teeth
like an initiation—
a passing
of a torch long extinguished
abandoned in the harbor,
coppered green and smoldering
when a tablet was a promise,
an invitation from the Mother
of Exiles before becoming
corroded stone—now reading
here lies America—
we once believed here.
