September - Poem 21

Hammers / Laura Bandy

On a podcast, a Gen X comedian mentions, offhand, a game he played in grade school. “It’s just what it sounds like,” he said. “We threw them at each other.” The young host laughs, assuming a joke from the funny man. “Can you even imagine,” he says. “What if that were really a game kids played?” You can hear the sound guy laughing in the background too, hear the static when he shakes his head and the episode’s audio quality briefly falters. “I don’t have to imagine it, I lived it,” says the comic, and host, sound guy, probably listeners on their commutes, laugh even harder; love it when a guest doubles down on a joke. “Okay,” says the comic eventually, a shoulder shrug in his voice, “okay,” and the conversation moves on to other, less generationally confounding topics, while I’m thrown back in memory to a favorite game of my own childhood wherein my older brother would line my sister and me up against our backyard shed—wide, two stories high, white paint peeling with hoop at the top, crumbling concrete slab of a  basketball court in front, you get the general 70’s-era idea—and explain that we had to keep our backs touching the wall but could move side to side like rooks on a chessboard as fast as we liked. Do try, he advised, to avoid slamming into each other, inevitable while also evading the tennis balls he would hit at us as hard and fast as possible, one after the other after the other, until the afternoons became cooler, the late summer sun sank, and our mother called us in for dinner. We loved this game, loved any attention from our kind but necessarily distant over the range of his six-year lead on us, brother. “Practice,” the game was called, for his spot on the tennis team which was always in question since our family didn’t belong to the country club; or maybe practice for us, pre-teen twin girls in pigtails and terrycloth play clothes, sliding sideways with strict rules under the gaze of a man who made them; or perhaps practice for the wind bisected by an unasked for projectile splitting the airflow and becoming missile in the spin; or even practice for the ball taking a hard hit twice, from the catgut strings of a taut racket to its impact at the wood shed destination, only possibility of rescue to land against soft bodies that, from time to time, just could not, would not learn until much later how, to get out of the way. 

When Mourning  / Alicia Boemi

I can’t bear to lose you, 
even if you're already gone.
So I’ll wrap you around my neck,
and take you everywhere with me.

The Unclaimed Baggage Facility Is Real /  Jesse DeLong

And it’s in Scottsboro, Alabama, and claims
to be “the only national retailer of lost luggage.”
There you can find the Perfect Moment
Corentine Denim Jacket that Jackie has forgotten
after she let an older woman use it as a pillow
on a long flight from Tucson to Bainbridge.
You don’t like that? How about the Lipstick
Pink La Cagole Shoulder Bag that Linda left
when, ironically, applying her own lipstick, not pink,
as she boarded the plane and hoped to cajole
the stewardess into an early glass of Moscato.
No? You already have a bag? How about the “Jesus
Loves You” Silver Sterling Charm? If you turn it around,
its assures you: “This I know.” Though, Mellissa didn’t
when it slipped from its chain and fell
onto the grey carpet next to an empty
M&M’s wrapper. If for some reason
you can’t see yourself
in any of these, how about a pair of Tortoise
TF5959-B Square Prescription Eyewear.
They have that
awkward brown and black blend of shades
that only comes in frames. When Jonathan
set them down to chat up a woman behind him,
he never picked them back up. Anyways, here’s
the links, if you like, since I’m lost
on how to end this poem profoundly:

https://www.unclaimedbaggage.com/collections/jackets-coats/products/dl-1961-excellent-womens-jackets-coats

 https://www.unclaimedbaggage.com/collections/handbags/products/crossbody-balenciaga-good-womens-handbags-1

 https://www.unclaimedbaggage.com/collections/jewelry/products/james-avery-misc-womens-jewelry-25

 https://www.unclaimedbaggage.com/collections/eyeglasses/products/prescription-eyewear-tom-ford-good-mens-eyeglasses-36

 a2 + b2 = c2 /  Shelly Krehbiel

The DC Universe,  /  rob mclennan

Endless, interrupted. Start again. False starts, and ethos. Golden age. Elsewhens, dither. Dangle. Disappear. Flash, echoes. Hero, sidekick, hero. Hard hat, wings. Solid, unchanged. Start again. Which is it? Half-through, ultimatum. Superman, electric. Dies. Batman, wanes. Star City: Cleveland, Chicago or Seattle? The last Clark Kent story. Start, again. Until. Such endless, interrupted. Source wall, glory. Crisis, kingdom come. Reboot, reboot. Grounded. New gods thunder, wisdom, patience. Endless, gesture. Kirbyesque, square-fingered. Behold! Barricades. Interrupted, start. Half-measure. Endlessly, begin.

Prose Pilot I  / Piper Rasmussen

I am a pilot. I once fueled up a yellow Aeronca and aimed it toward Albuquerque, which I believed at the time was mythical. My father was teaching me how to fly. He fed me undercooked chicken thighs so I could understand birds better. He never pushed me off a ledge, but I'm sure he thought about it. After I took off, I realized my father had been in the back seat of the plane the whole time. He scolded me for not checking weight and balance properly. He was heavier than I was, so it was hard to land. There were shear winds. I was tempted by a sideways loop-de-loop into the green but chickened out. The grass-strip airport staff and my father nearly clipped my wings after that, but I distracted them by drawing cartoons in my logbook. 

fire sermon  / Connor Simons

The creation of boundaries is a kind of imagination; this not that. First a tryst then the marriage of self and exclusion. And if the fire line keeps moving, closer and closer, spanning the river, devouring the rye stalks – is that our unloved child? Our rough beast?  Its sleepless eyes a heat-borne whirlwind of hinterland’s lack and centuries of certainty?

In ignorance of desire / Veronica Vo

‍ ‍after Obsession

enough time passes this life that wasn’t supposed to be yours
and you don’t know what you want anymore what you’re watching
bodily autonomy horror-comedy
taken for granted true to form
what kind of person wants that the slasher isn’t the biggest evil
desire without free will a figure devoid understands
two things that must coexist innocence and performance
but does anything really matter in the end
real you screaming on the phone fake you smiling
will you speak to her like you always wanted to

Message in a Bottle   /  Melinda Wilson

I don’t have room for it all      all the letters I will write to the oneday world  
all the sentences to say    that I’m sorry we weren’t better      the words: 
I’m sorry    I’m sorry    I’m sorry          for everything I’m sorry 
The bottle is full and I am empty    and you    were most likely never  
even born because this beautiful earth couldn’t survive our gluttony
our violence      our disregard     And I am sorry      for my part in it all    
for not knowing  what to do when our neighbor countries burn      are on literal
fire and we  want to tax the smoke      and so what is to be done now    but light
a joint and rejoice    crack a beer and cry out     
                                           into the long night that is to come