October - Poem 6
Pas de Deux / Lilly Frank
Trailing dirt inside of the house, boots cover the linoleum floor. A mosaic of homes now infiltrated mine; I feel apologetic to the worms, beetles, moles, trees. Awkwardly stumbling down the hallway to the mop, reminiscent of the ballet. Remembering the way my toes spun against the concrete flooring in the second-floor dance studio. I was one a child trailing dirt inside of the house, my boots covering the hardwood floor. I was once a child, laced in pointe shoes, leaping across what felt like a large sky, endless attempts of a pirouette.
Mop now in hand, I sober at the realization that my childhood lightness is no longer mine to claim. There is a mess covering the floor, there are dishes to be done, and there are things to be said.
I grip the mop tighter now, “Take the damn boots off.”
Haiku / Anna Ojascastro Guzon
Haven't heard that song
since Kasey Kasem. Roll down
the windows again.
The moon feels so close.
It leans in to listen to
you, alone, howling.
moonshot / Kathryn Johnson
Sometime I picture mankind suspended between
Earth and sky.
At least I do whenever I encounter a story about space.
It’s like we are strung from one element to the next,
our nature being both
base and divine,
dark and light.
Like Artemis and Apollo,
the celestial twins. Or maybe
the space programs designed
to break free from
our dirt-named home.
To the moon.
To Mars.
Consider the massive crawler,
a behemoth that moves
our fastest vessels,
only one mile each hour
down a packed-earth path.
It’s the sizeable counterpoint to
the rocket’s escape velocity and
built by miners.
Our ability to touch the sky
made possible by
our expertise in
digging
down
down
down
into
the
ground.
In this book, I want to write… / Kimberly McElhatten
I want to write about mountains—
The way their trees turn green
after winter, spring after spring.
I want to write about my grandfathers—
The way they grew gardens
on plots the size of their homes, season after season.
I want to write about my grandmother Dot—
The way she put up peaches
in a dirt-floor cellar, jar after jar.
I want to write about my other grandmother—
The way she made applesauce
on the stovetop, autumn after autumn.
I want to write about fireflies—
The way they light up fields
across western PA, June after June.
I want to write about opioids—
The way they wind themselves
into our too muches & not enoughs, gram after gram.
I want to write about natural gas—
The way fracking can taint a wallet
with big dreams of bigger houses, derrick after derrick.
I want to write about welfare checks—
The way they pay for milk and bread
for mouths like mine, month after month.
I want to write about the wind—
The way it whittled our ridges
from peaks to knobs, strata after strata.
I want to write about creeks and rivers—
The way they carved the valleys
through our mountains, bend after bend.
I want to write poems—
The way the words alight
on the page, line after line.
