September - Poem 11
Non-Con / Laura Bandy
In the romance novels I inhale, lists of trigger warnings often detail what readers might find
objectionable or too titillating to be born. When the spicy hits a full boil and the consent gets
dubious, it’s okay, really—we’re all on board with this pretend, we’ve all been warned. In poetry
though, the rules feel less set. I don’t check with the humans that have dotted personal
landscapes, don’t ask if they mind when I use their names. Some might call that non-con, but I
say… wait. Hold on. Let me rewind a tick. The trick with genre smut is choosing the right mix of
lovers and learning the lingo: female main character falls for male main character shrinks to
FMC/MMC, and sex saturation factor is denoted with, you guessed it, number of jalapeños.
Sister Sarah says she only reads M/M romance now, since believing that any man could really
love any woman when they so clearly want to kill us is just too far a stretch, even in fiction. Did
I mention that I never use last names? I’m a scoundrel, like Sebastian Ballister, the Marquess of
Dain, in my current Regency, but I would never never never never never never never never never
never never never never never never never never never never never never nevernever never
never never never never never never never never never never never never never never neve
never never never never nevernever never never never never never never never never never
never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never
never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never
never never never never never never never never never never never never never never never
never never never never never never never never never never never never NEVER put real
humans on the front page that way (maybe). Dub and non-con are popular tropes, with readers
wishing to fantasize about giving over, surrendering control safely, all between the clinch covers
of A Week to be Wicked, or Puck Me, if it’s hockey. You can get real naked, there, you can let
Sebastian or Xander or Julian or Enzo or Hunter or Dante or Levi take the wheel, you can revel
in the knowledge that you never really stood a chance because you’re smaller and softer, or
maybe louder and girlbossed, even sporty and muscled, could be long-haired or blonde short,
sometimes bratty and asking for… no. Not there. Let’s give a girl what she wants—the happy
ending, pearl necklace fairy tale, and since we’re mixing genres here, why not a werewolf, too,
who only wants you, his true love, in the flattering light of the blue full moon.
One dog / Alicia Boemi
One dog will change you.
One dog gets you at your core.
One dog gives themself to you.
One dog gets you to laugh.
One dog loves spending time together.
One dog can heal you.
One dog gives you everything you need.
One dog goes everywhere with you, forever.
One dog leaves fur on your clothes.
One dog gives you only tail wags.
One dog loves the songs you make up in their name.
One dog is your best friend.
One dog doesn’t judge. Ever.
One dog makes you realize — this is all worth it.
One dog is magnificent.
One dog eats better than you ever will.
One dog listens.
One dog doesn’t listen.
One dog has eaten your favorite socks.
One dog is always forgiven.
One dog always forgives you, too.
One dog grieves when you grieve.
One dog gives and doesn’t ask for anything in return.
One dog cuddles with you in bed every night.
One dog makes your home, home.
One dog does get you to cancel your plans.
One dog loves more than you can comprehend.
One dog is your whole world.
One dog will break your heart.
One dog will live in your memory, for eternity.
Different Kinds of Currents / Jesse DeLong
My mother used to buy me birds, usually finches, from the pet store. And my father, a man whose own family raised steer and who had to work the cattle before going to school, used to leave their cages unlatched on the porch. He told me he couldn’t stand to see them that way, it wasn’t natural, but of course finches can’t survive in the mountains of Idaho, so they likely died in the cold or the talons of a hawk. Later my mother would die in the bed beside him of liver failure, my father wiping her body clean. “You came,” she said, almost an empty shirt then, when she saw me sit at the table. “You came.”
that she should smile* / Shelly Krehbiel
oh, Thalia of the gentle light
you look away as though your love
is one i cannot see, always
just beyond this canvas window.
comics say laughter is a way
to spin pain into another’s
joy. i wonder what desire you
hold for that other you cannot
turn from, whose sight sparkles your eyes,
lifts the corners of your closed lips.
but maybe it’s not a lover,
no, a scene: three children laughing
beneath an oak tree, playing catch
with a ball of string. a scrub jay
hopping through the branches above
watches as though he would join them,
his scruffy grey head betraying
his youth. should i become the bright
creek beside them, send happy light
to your watching eyes or should i
stay here, a distant guest, longing
to kiss your shoulder? muse, must i
make peace with your abandon, rest
my self in some idyllic scene
to become beauty’s smiling mask,
a character in your delight?
*a contemplation of the painting, Thalia by Giuseppe Fagnani
Four views of the solar eclipse, / rob mclennan
Social media, glisten. Inarticulate, woe. Redemption. From where I stand. Once, once more. From where we sit. Televised. The poets, obsessed. Shake loose these limbs. Anything to do with the moon. Wolves, seasoned. The shape seems as distant. This ponzo illusion. Enlarged, at horizon. Sediment. Waves, incremental. The contours of what one forgets. The hope, in the centre. Circumference, absence. Subjective interest. By the waters of Perth, the Tay River. Six ancient coins. Aesthetically pleased. By the water, proportion. The moon, passes. Pulls, at clouds. TikTok, this view of curled fingers. Dissolve, list. We catch daybreak, news. Cycles, lunar. The Perseids, also. Every third word.
Welcome Back / Piper Rasmussen
The laborers have had time to send their emails
confirming the new working season, post-Day. Scotty's back
on the bridge & turning up the flux capacitors for Cpt. Alice
& we're plunging into the wormhole,
the autumn shortcut, student by back-to-school
permission slips forward-looking
snaps September's rubber band, overfull with that thrill
of signing up, the checks the body can cash later,
for example, after Thanksgiving,
grateful for the opportunity,
or resolute (January)
or when beloved (February)
memorialized (May)
promises look different on the other end
Max / Connor Simons
most days when someone says a wildfire
renews a forest i don’t even scowl no
patience anymore how many pinecones
can explode into seed before we stop
confusing cycle and disaster potash coats
the forest floor and when i gather charcoal
ash to spread between the peppers i do
understand but it’s not that when i hold
you suddenly fingerbone trees seem like
they could one day regrow their flesh
you and i know the names that are just
names now and soon won’t even be that
but when i hear the way your voice ha
lowered or imagine the growing sharpness
of your chin i understand why we once
threw fat on the pyre and if the flames
flared up then something was being fed
Hometown Return / Veronica Vo
Back in the land of not a single other person
in the room who isn’t white.
It’s been minutes and I’ve already seen five
different iterations of Make America ___ Again
and none of these visions for the future include us.
Can realization be a feeling? Mostly, I feel for the girl
I was that didn’t know why she felt so out of place
growing up. I can’t be friends with anyone
who won’t bear witness. But I can be family.
The other day, a white person said, scoffing,
of course, it’s about race. Of course.
I Wrote Like AI before AI Wrote Like I / Melinda Wilson
Before we taught the algorithms
to approximate academic discourse,
I labored over prose that insists
on evidence over impulse.
I contend that every claim must bow
to the majesty of methodological
account. No interpretation
is to be accepted without scrutiny
of bloodline, without the discipline
of restraint. In the age of AI,
the detached tone of the scholar
is labeled computational, absent
of confession, wanting for personality,
desperate for rhetorical flourish. All
diction becomes artifact of suspicion.
All em dashes discarded in the e-waste
dumping sites of our data centers,
alongside the remnants of my little geek heart.
