October - Poem 9

All Dogs Go to Heaven   / Lilly Frank

The suicidal dogs licked their chops. Hungry for the bloodshed before the end. Teeth cut and carved into spears, ears glued to the sides of their heads, a cautionary snarl. Signaling to begin the war that had been over before it had even started. Now lunging with confidence showing in the chin and shoulders, the leash had begun to feel as merely a suggestion. Git! A wrathful bark filled the thick Kentucky air. Git! Now! A bark, again, somehow, more feverous than the last. The man, despite his best efforts, had the gun vibrating between his hands. Prideful, arrogant, and crooked. As he lifted the barrel towards the beast, the fearlessness traced sweat along his brow. If he killed this dog, they would unload his closet. His offenses sprawled across the front lawn, then the local paper, and then, he would be the one staring down the sawed-off end of a shotgun.

But me, how could we forget the me… I’m still there, don't worry. Paws dig into the dried ground and dead grass. Feeling the breeze underneath a coat of fur. Feeling courage in the gut and anger in the heart. An unwavering bravery. As much as this was a spite worth living for, it was equally a cause worth dying for.

I stood there, day and night and day and night and day and night again. He was long gone, probably onto some other sorry bastard who had the misfortune of crossing his path. But that rabidness did not rehome itself. It stayed in my stomach; it stayed lodged in the side of my neck. I never slept again. Instinctual panic, eternal wariness.

The Drive  ​/ Anna Ojascastro Guzon

She lives between her present life and the lives

living between her present and not-so-distant lives. 

Right this way/ Kathryn Johnson

Becoming is a roller coaster of a word, 
with its slopes and climbs and loop-de-loops. 
The thrills it promises beckon like a carnival barker, 
weaving a staccato enchantment, 
making you believe you have a chance, 
a choice. Like any of us do. Trust me, 
you will become. It's the only constant 
connecting the bookends of this life–

birth, becoming, death. Framed between 
two dramas, the birthing room and the deathbed. 
But here's a little piece of good news, 
so light and sweet it will melt 
like cotton candy on your tongue. 
It's a bit of sleight of hand really. 
You have no choice but to become. And yet. 
You can choose how you become 
what you become. 

And that's the real thrill ride. 
Trial and error. Glory and failure. 
Each choice, ratcheting you up the hill. 
Readying you for the drop. 
The shout. 
The weightless joy 
of being.

Wilmore Reservoir South, Late Evening with a Full Moon Rising / Kimberly McElhatten

My kayak cuts
the water across a
reservoir between
Rosebud Coal
Mine and the Eastern
Continental Di[vide].

Along an
amethyst and
carnelian
skyline, windmill
lights fracture the
constellations and flash
red — [&] — red — [&] — red — [&] — red.

Starboard,
sunfish jump
a flash of
opalescent
moon rising
behind
the hills.

A POEM IS / H.T. Reynolds

not a suicide note
isn’t a manifesto
or an apology
isn’t a map
or a birth certificate

it is the sensation of slipping from surgery
the pause before the overflowing tub
when our skin yearns for drowning
but there is no space to try
only convulsing,
a reminder we live hairless
dependent upon the soil

for life
or our life

for every fibrous grain
we fuse with our skin

a poem isn’t the stars
or a photograph
isn’t the rippling buzz
from our speakers

it is the bleeding fingers on guitar strings
the lung cancer adjacent to the darkroom,
the casserole carved up, expiring
on abandoned plates scattered between
rooms void of small laughter

a poem is not a suicide note
but it tries