September - Poem 7
Running From Rain / Yael Aldana
for Sammi
An old fawn dog is snoozing, ear cocked
hears the silent clattering in her dream
her leg flails, hurried, rapid, rhythmic,
is she running to smack her lips on fallen
peanut butter? galloping after interlopers?
looping around the moss-laden
imitation Venus de Milo in the garden?
the leg pauses. does she smell
the pillow white clouds going
dark gray, the heaviness of moisture,
foreboding? She does not have to worry
about the late light bill, driving the car
without ac to save gas. the leg goes again.
perhaps she runs for cover, beats
the droplets, and retreats just
in time under the pine-beamed porch.
Well, you really did it this time / Catherine Bai
You said something so
sincere, you made the moon look
this goddamn jaded.
Beginner’s Guide to Parenting / Danielle Boodoo Fortune
First of all, admit that you know nothing.
The world is on fire. Your uterus is full
of microplastics. Chemicals build small
boats in your blood. Your heart is adrift
In a sea of unknowing.
They grow from one season to the next,
small hurts lodging here and there
like fishhooks, gathering questions
you will never hold the answers for.
But beloved, the orependola will not
build its nest in short format, nor
will the unkillable dasheen succumb to rot.
Children will grow whether you worry
or not, whether you know the answers or not.
Their need for you becomes tidal,
each day a new ebb and flow.
You will learn when to hold tight and when to let go.
VII: Dithyramb for Diane Seuss / Kendra Brooks
In revising the syntax of rumination,
she puts on the words, wears them
like a suit of colors mixing with sound.
Not just the sounds that ring in her & through her
but the scattering of the words as they speak
arranging and rearranging them like musical notes
to tell and re-tell; some singing, some whispering
or others shouting like how you imagine
the sound sensation of a sun rising in words.
A memory weaves itself like a heavy fabric
to be cut & sewn on a machine,
each warp thread passes through
the heddle of remembrance
and each strand is an utterance fitting tightly
into the waistband of the suit of lamentation;
the many colored threads form a celebration
of language loud enough even the dead might hear.
Commute / Kimberly Gibson-Tran
Last night I showered early because a storm
might’ve come. It would have been hard,
slicked with lather, to light a candle.
Something about lights going out stings
and electric twinge, scent of a cave
in firelight, a snapping haze that’s almost
irresistible. The storm didn’t come to us.
It lashed the lives and roofs to the north,
downed other power lines. This morning
baptizes the drive to work. The wipers stick
when I flick them. Hardly anything steady
these days—only the barista who knows
my order. Funny, I never thought my face
memorable. On a podcast the host details
a murder last year in Colorado. I chose
the show—full of warnings and disclaimers,
a moral mask that amps anticipation. A poem
I read chastises for thinking fondly of a CEO’s
killer. Pencils that wag are disappointing.
Place the product, ink the 3D gun, bleach
the knives. Each of us shocks the silence quiet.
Until the rainbow burns the stars out in the sky / Yvette Perry
Because I loved both science and music
I’d think for a long time about the line,
listening on black headphones
clunky on my head,
(hand-me-downs from my Daddy, likely),
about the impossibility
of it all, about how a rainbow
is sunlight refracted through
water falling down from the sky,
but “falling” and “down”
are not scientifically accurate,
as inaccurate as saying
“the sun rises” or “the sun sets”
because the sun is the sun
and we on earth
are the ones moving round
it, and this visible spectrum of colors
is what we call “rainbow,” but the spectrum
itself cannot heat anything, let alone
incinerate other solar systems’ suns.
The awe I felt thinking of this,
to be loved until such an
impossible thing.
To be loved like that.
*from “As” by Stevie Wonder
Oxidation / Amber Wei
Were you listening
when the bell rang
a bit too loud
When the rain rusted its edges
so that I could hear it
reverberate in tension
So not even air
can calm its motion
Is the bell afraid to be heard
For if it is, the wind is holding its breath
The rings can travel farther
to where rust cannot oxidize further
And the bell can tell that the battle has begun
And the warriors can all aggregate around the rust
So that boundaries become dissolved
And all that is left is the bell’s dust
