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Red Sea
|
I’m terrified of a number of fates,
Poisoned water under a tyrant’s wage,
Being fired for doing nothing, my parents dying,
Committing a thought like this to the page,
The splash of acid to the face
The Queens non-profit boss received
Leaving work one blue August evening. Hell’s
So eloquent and poetry’s no fate at all
Unless you count the story of the divided sea
Waiting to wash its assassins away.
Says the Pharaoh, “That’s so sad.”
But that story is less fate than news, whereas
That Queens boss? Permanently burned, the Times
Says one eye won’t stop weeping.
| Daniel Poppick | Living,Sorrow & Grieving,The Mind,Religion,Judaism,Social Commentaries,Crime & Punishment,War & Conflict | null |
Know No Name
|
Know no name
Why this holy day honed
Hollow day haul
I lost wind when wooden
I can’t bear to be
Unaided in hunt unhanded
To haunt when strewn sound
Who will be held in hand
Brought sent
Mooring at the shore
Who’re you for
For what fewer who wore
Be called this wooer
More who are the ones
In horror to light will strew
then sue for war
| Kazim Ali | Religion,The Spiritual,Arts & Sciences,Language & Linguistics,Social Commentaries,War & Conflict | null |
The Pain Reliever
|
Silence is the sound the knife makes
slitting the skin.
Can you identify my weakness,
a pricking sensation
and numbness in one limb?
Can you hold this tongue?
Tell me, what is the function
of meticulous courage.
You are the most yourself
when you are in the motion.
One can be quick and too quick.
I have a stomach too.
It gets hungry.
If I be of necessity
opportunity,
if there be the slightest chance of success,
why have a mind, if?
Does that scream in the night across the alley
beg an answer? Are we crowning
into the sludge of an injury and its repair?
An elephant is larger and stronger than a horse;
but it is not preferred as a beast of burden.
Strength is a wee umbrella
in the storm.
This the friction sound heard
in inspiration, expiration, or both.
For convenience of description,
blood is bright red and frothy.
Have you earned the privilege
of making mistakes?
There really is no sex in science.
The nomenclature lifts
delicate subjects up from the plane
in which language places them.
Man has more strength,
woman, more endurance.
The hands and the instruments
are the chief sources of danger.
This fever.
There is no subject on which so much has been written
and so little known.
| Carrie Olivia Adams | Living,Health & Illness,Activities,Jobs & Working,Arts & Sciences,Sciences,Social Commentaries,Gender & Sexuality | null |
from "Company"
|
At the top of a hill each morning,
I wait for the bus by the donut store.
Its pink sign looks hot,
curls, like a rope, a stem to a brain.
You turn toward a jade
at the height of your neighborhood,
stop at a light in its gut.
The sun starts to seep up,
reaching all grasses and grooves of the city.
A white bus with black windows passes.
A few minutes later, the city bus arrives like a room.
It crawls warm and dull to the west edge,
breathing its heat, a few baby hands
warming wide glass.
The billboard at my stop displays a large number to call.
A man walks his sniffing dog below it,
sharp legs brushing wild onion.
At the base of the hill,
I enter my code,
push the gray gate open,
allow the worn loop of my bag
down my arm, walk to my station.
I drop the metal end of a hose
into a bucket, turn the tough faucet.
Traveling after the sound,
the cold rushes out
full force from the rubber,
breaking into itself, interrupting and filling
the round plastic space.
Hungry, I pick up the water.
| Emily Hunt | Activities,Jobs & Working,Travels & Journeys,Social Commentaries,Cities & Urban Life | null |
Ash Weed
|
I am so done with feeling
Xmas Amaryllis grow
in places where thralls go free
I am not quite enough
for the woodland; promoting myself again
after all accused men have been named
In Casablanca I wait for livestock
to come through luxe doors
for thighs to grow less through absorption
My killer is not going to be invited to this
Ornamenting party and I am blue daisies
casting O’s wide in anointment
Now that he’s gone I am free to torch down the
Valley la spiaggia of pure
Purple small neck in hand
| Laura Marie Marciano | Social Commentaries,Crime & Punishment,Gender & Sexuality | null |
Open Openly
|
Bless Tuesday, blessed Monday.
Bless the word week, its seven
small days trail with y.
Bless the men whose words
I was too young to hear.
A whisper loves a canal.
Bless my laugh, lent by grief,
I have so little left to borrow.
But my hair, it grows—
if hair be gold, cut mine so
I might rid my beloved
of his student loans. Bless
thieves, universities, those
hands caress what’s not theirs.
Bless thinking it was yours.
Here are hands, blessed one.
Bless them holding the door.
Bless each crier on the F
train before and after me
as they blush, as they transfer
into tunnels for the red line.
Oh bless, bless wildly, what
remains to be done. Bless
the one who told me so,
the ones who didn’t.
Even weak breaths bless.
Bless weakness, fragile fortress,
my friend’s body absent
of soundness. Bless the sound
of someone reliable answering
your call, saying If you’re going
through hell, Hello. | Alan Felsenthal | Living,The Mind,Love,Romantic Love,Social Commentaries,Money & Economics | null |
the way we live now ::
|
when the cultivators of corpses are busy seeding
plague across vast acres of the land, choking schools
and churches in the motley toxins of grief, breeding
virile shoots of violence so soon verdant even fools
fear to tread in their wake :: when all known tools
of resistance are clutched in the hands of the vile
like a wilting bouquet, cut from their roots, while
the disempowered slice smiles across their own faces
and hide the wet knives in writhing thickets of hair
for future use :: when breathing in the ashen traces
of dreams deferred, the detonator’s ticking a queer
echo that amplifies instead of fading :: when there-
you-are is where-you-were and the sunset groans
into the atlantic, setting blue fire to dark white bones.
| Evie Shockley | Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Social Commentaries,History & Politics,Race & Ethnicity | null |
what's not to liken?
|
the 14-year-old girl was treated like:
(a) a grown woman.
(b) a grown man.
the bikini-clad girl was handled by the cop like:
(a) a prostitute.
(b) a prostitute by her pimp.
the girl was slung to the ground like:
(a) a sack of garbage into a dumpster.
(b) somebody had something to prove.
the girl’s braids flew around her head like:
(a) helicopter blades.
(b) she’d been slapped.
the black girl was pinned to the ground like:
(a) an amateur wrestler in a professional fight.
(b) swimming in a private pool is a threat to national security.
the girl’s cries sounded like:
(a) the shrieks of children on a playground.
(b) the shrieks of children being torn from their mothers.
the protesting girl was shackled like:
(a) a criminal.
(b) a runaway slave.
liken it or not
—mckinney, texas, june 2015
| Evie Shockley | Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Social Commentaries,Crime & Punishment,Gender & Sexuality,History & Politics,Race & Ethnicity | null |
Sex Trafficking Incidents in the Life of a Slave Girl in the USA (or, The Nation’s Plague in Plain Sight)
|
And now, reader, I come to a period in my unhappy life,
which I would gladly forget if I could. Asia Graves looks straight ahead as she calmly recalls the night a man paid $200 on a Boston street to have sex with her.
The remembrance fills me with sorrow and shame. “If you
want attention and you see that you’re getting it, you just follow your
feelings,” senior Araceli Figueroa, 17, said. “It’s sad.”
It pains me to tell you of it; but I have promised to tell you
the truth, and I will do it honestly, let it cost me what it
may. A plague more commonly associated with other countries has
been taking young victims in the United States, one by one. | Evie Shockley | Living,Youth,Social Commentaries,Crime & Punishment,Gender & Sexuality,Race & Ethnicity | null |
A Mighty Pulverizing Machine
|
To each orphaned child—so long as you remain close enough to walk to
your living kin you will dance, feast, feel community in food. This cannot
stand. Eighty acres allotted.
To each head of household—so long as you remember your tribal words
for village you will recollect that the grasses still grow and the rivers still
flow. So long as you teach your children these words they will remember
as well. This we cannot allow. One hundred and sixty acres allotted.
To each elder unable to till or hunt—so long as your old and injurious habits
sing out over the drum or flicker near the fire you cripple our reward. We
seek to hasten your end. Eighty acres allotted.
To each widowed wife—so long as you can make your mark, your land
may be leased. A blessing on your mark when you sign it and walk closer
to your favored white sister. Eighty acres allotted.
To each full blood—so long as you have an open hand, we shall fill it with
a broken ploughshare. One hundred and sixty acres allotted.
To each half blood, each quarter strain—so long as you yearn for the broken
ploughshare, you will be provided a spade honed to razor in its place.
When every acre of your allotment has been leased or sold, you will turn it
on yourself. From that date begins our real and permanent progress.
| Laura Da' | Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Social Commentaries,History & Politics,Race & Ethnicity,War & Conflict | null |
Passive Voice
|
I use a trick to teach students
how to avoid passive voice.
Circle the verbs.
Imagine inserting “by zombies”
after each one.
Have the words been claimed
by the flesh-hungry undead?
If so, passive voice.
I wonder if these
sixth graders will recollect,
on summer vacation,
as they stretch their legs
on the way home
from Yellowstone or Yosemite
and the byway’s historical marker
beckons them to the
site of an Indian village—
Where trouble was brewing.
Where, after further hostilities, the army was directed to enter.
Where the village was razed after the skirmish occurred.
Where most were women and children.
Riveted bramble of passive verbs
etched in wood—
stripped hands
breaking up from the dry ground
to pinch the meat
of their young red tongues.
| Laura Da' | Activities,School & Learning,Arts & Sciences,Language & Linguistics,Social Commentaries,History & Politics,War & Conflict | null |
Dakota Homecoming
|
We are so honored that
you are here, they said.
We know that this is
your homeland, they said.
The admission price
is five dollars, they said.
Here is your button
for the event, they said.
It means so much to us that
you are here, they said.
We want to write
an apology letter, they said.
Tell us what to say.
| Gwen Nell Westerman | Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Social Commentaries,History & Politics,War & Conflict | null |
More Experiments with the Mysterious Property of Animal Magnetism (1769)
|
Finding myself in a mesmeric orientation,
before me appeared Benjamin Franklin,
who magnetized his French paramours
at dinner parties as an amusing diversion
from his most serious studies of electricity
and the ethereal fire. I like thinking about
how he would have stood on tiptoe to kiss
their buzzing lips and everyone would gasp
and clap for the blue spark between them.
I believe in an honest and forthright manner,
a democracy of plain speech, so I have to
find a way to explain I don’t care to have sex
anymore. Once I was a high school teacher
and there was a boy who everyday came in late,
who only came to school at all to sell drugs
out of his backpack, upon which he laid
his head like a pillow and closed his eyes
while I pointed at a chart diagramming
the anatomy of a sparrow. The vice principal
was watching and taking notes as I taught
this class, so I slid the bag from under
his cheek, as if not to wake him, wrapped
his fingers around a pen. I was trying
to be a gentle mother and also trying
to show I was in control of an unstable
situation. The boy, also trying to be
in control of himself, walked so slow
to my desk and we stood to watch him
push everything—binders, piles of ungraded
papers, a beaker of red pens to the floor.
He was so calm. How do you like it when I touch your things. I do not like it. I live
in a house with many blue mason jars,
each containing a feather collection or starfish
collection or vertebrae collection, and also
there is a fully articulated fetal alligator skeleton.
Each window is pressed by the design
of a sweet-gum branch, all the little orange
and red stars of its leaves, you can’t see
the perfect geometry this close, just haphazard
parabolas, but beneath the foundation
the roots mirror the branching. I have
a chart of this to pull down. The view is flat
and so quiet on the inside. Have I been
forthright yet? What I want to know is
what happens if I decide to never have sex
again? Or more precisely, can I decide
to not have sex again and still be kind?
And be a joy to others? I should mention
I am a wife. I should mention I was told
my sole purpose is to be joy to others.
The sidewalks outside are very full of people
and when I look at them I feel hopeless.
Benjamin Franklin was so jolly with his kite
and his key and his scandalous electricity.
He was so in love with women and drink
and democracy. Before I was this way,
I was not a house, I was just a jar and what
I wanted was to be broken. A cool trick
you can do that I once showed a class is crank
a wheel covered in felt against another felt
wheel. Static bristles and sparks and makes
your hair stand on end. But hook it to
a Leyden jar and the electricity fills up
in there, invisible as air. Becomes a glass
battery, until you too much the thing, then
wow! broken glass everywhere. I remember
wanting that. Do I have to always want that?
My house is blue and quiet. I can hardly
hear the squirrel in my sweet-gum tree
dancing like a sunbeam to sing his riddles:
“A house full, a hole full, but you cannot
gather a bowl full.” The air of everywhere
is wet with electric fluid, you can’t even tell,
but pop, whiz, everywhere. “In this
field,” Ben says, “the soul has room
enough to expand, to display all of her
extravagances.” The sweet gum has 10,000
sticky, spiky seed balls. They start green
but grow black and fall for want of
a barren season. They look like sea urchins.
I call them tree urchins and think it’s
a funny joke. I don’t tell it to anyone,
as I am tired of being told what is not.
Such a secret, I know, is an extravagance,
and I like best how it’s an extravagance so
small you must keep it in a jar with others
of its kind for it to ever mean anything at all.
| Kathryn Nuernberger | Living,Life Choices,Activities,School & Learning,Arts & Sciences,Sciences,Social Commentaries,Gender & Sexuality | null |
Toad
|
My child is sitting cross-legged on the floor reading to herself.
Sometimes she is so full of need I push her to the floor.
Only once I did that and I don’t even remember the moment
right, but I was trying to wipe urine off my leg and she was
naughty like a squirrel and jumping and singing and her head
slammed into my chin, which hurt and even more than that,
it pissed me off, because she’s my beautiful child, but in that
button snap of a moment she was suddenly just one more person
and I pushed her away in a way that felt to me like setting her
down, but awkwardly, because of how she was also balancing
her feet on my feet as I tried to pour out a bowl of pee
from her little potty as a toothbrush dangled foaming
from my mouth. Somewhere in the mess of that morning
she’d become person enough to, in the space between us,
create force of momentum, and then I did not set her down,
but pushed her and she fell away from it against the wall
and was crying because I, her mommy, pushed her. And I know
this should be the poem about how I’m horrified at myself,
the poem about what in ourselves we have to live with,
but in that moment which followed two years of breastfeeding
and baby-wearing and sixty-nine hours of natural childbirth
and the hemorrhaging and the uncertain operation, after which
I pumped every two hours, careful not to let the cord tangle
in the IV. Even then when she cried and no matter what
and no matter and no matter and no matter and no matter what,
I held her all night if she cried so she would not ever know
someday you’ll cry alone, but I held her and ached and leaked
and bled too as long as it took. Of course there’ve been nights
since but sometimes it feels as if I’ve never been asleep again,
so when I say I pushed my two-year-old against a wall and I don’t
remember it happening that way but it happened and I did
and I’ve been wondering a long time now what the limit is
and when I would find the end of myself, and that day, which
was yesterday, was the end. And this day, when we played
hide-and-seek with Daddy, and touched bugs, and readFrog and Toad Are Friends twice together before she read it
to herself as I wrote this, this is the day that comes after.
| Kathryn Nuernberger | Living,Life Choices,Parenthood,Love,Realistic & Complicated,Relationships,Family & Ancestors | null |
Little Lesson on How to Be
|
The woman at the Salvation Army who sorts and prices is in her eighties
and she underestimates the value of everything, for which I am grateful.
Lightly used snow suits, size 2T, are $6 and snow boots are $3.
There is a little girl, maybe seven, fiddling with a tea set. Her mother
inspects drapes for stains.
Sometimes the very old and lonely are looking for an opening.
She glances up from her pricing and says something about the tea set
and a baby doll long ago.
I am careful not to make eye contact, but the mother with drapes has
such softness in her shoulders and her face and she knows how to say
the perfect kind thing—“What a wonderful mother you had.”
“Yes, she was.”
Why do children sometimes notice us and sometimes not?
From the bin of dolls: “What happened to your mother?”
“She died.”
The woman at the Salvation Army who sorts and prices is crying a little.
She seems surprised to be crying. “It’s been eighty years and I still miss
her.”
When my daughter was born I couldn’t stop thinking about how we
were going to die. If we were drowning, would it be better to hold her
to me even as she fought away or should I let her float off to wonder why
her mother didn’t help her? What if it’s fire and I have one bullet left? I
made sure my husband knew if there were death squads and he had to
choose, I’d never love him again if he didn’t choose her. If I’m lucky,
her crying face is the last thing I’ll see.
The mother with drapes is squeezing her daughter’s shoulder, trying to
send a silent message, but children are children. “Why did she die?”
“She was going to have a baby and—And she died.”
“But she was a wonderful mother.”
I’m holding a stack of four wooden jigsaw puzzles of farm animals,
dinosaurs, jungle animals, and pets. Each for a quarter.
“It’s silly how much I still miss her.” She takes out a tissue and wipes
her eyes and then her nose.
When my grandmother threw her sister, Susie, a 90th birthday party,
one hundred people came, including 5 of the 6 brothers and sisters. At
dusk only a few of us were left, nursing beers with our feet kicked up
on the bottom rungs of various walkers.
Susie said then to my grandmother, “Can you think of all the people
watching us in heaven now? And our mother must be in the front row.”
Grandma took her sister’s hand. “Our mother—Estelle.”
“Yes—her name was Estelle. I forgot that.”
They looked so happy then, saying her name back and forth to each
other. Estelle. Estelle.
| Kathryn Nuernberger | Living,Death,Parenthood,Relationships,Family & Ancestors | null |
The Riots
|
We were given a curfew on the second day.
Clouds filling windows were replaced by soot
and ash from the burned out market on the corner.
We lost the smell of buttered beetroot, Wissotzky tea
and kishke; a tendril of root infiltrated a crack
in the floorboards. We kept our distance and let it grow
in disbelief. Someone said we should kill it
before it gets too strong. Hours, maybe even days,
went by as we hid waiting for attacks and looting
to end. At times, when the door opened, a waft of wind
made its way to those unfolding leaves
waving like the curtains out of blown out windows.
| Ruben Quesada | Social Commentaries,History & Politics,War & Conflict | null |
Last Photograph of My Parents
|
San José, Costa Rica
Tortillas clap against floured palms,
steaming bowls of avena, frijoles
black as the rumbling sky,arroz con pollo simmers. Against the kitchen
window, small clouds rise. Papá dances
to the electric beat of the marimba,
his cheek bristly against Mamá’s
neck; his thick fingers sift
through her wispy hair. I am nowhere
to be found, neither in the foreground nor
background. Today I sit in this chair,
in the corner of my house, covered
with a poncho of blue flowers,
looking out at asphalt roads overflowing
with rain, fogging the glass. Along the road,
steam rises like blotchy fingerprints.
| Ruben Quesada | Living,Death,Relationships,Family & Ancestors | null |
After Oprah
|
As a kid the only black woman
in my life was my fourth-grade teacher—
I remember her not because she was black
but mostly because of her copper-colored
bob that never changed, as if a piece
of bronze had been chiseled onto her
head and neither I nor my classmates
could prove it was a wig, but we knew it was
too perfect to be real. Then you came in-
to my home—but not the way someone
came in one afternoon while we were away
grocery shopping, leaving the side door wide
open releasing my white-winged parakeet,
my mother’s jewelry and our television,
gone. And for years I watched you go
from analog into digital; you were
the modicum of motherhood I encountered
daily while my mother stood on a production
line mouthing prayers for prosperity
and health in a room of air
compressors. You’re a super galactic
hologram—scattered light reconstructed
through the dark matter, ever-shrinking
pixels—shifting the cosmology
of the world with gigs of Gayle, and
revolutionary road trips. And now
will you quietly fade out into the space-
time continuum where not even my imagination
will find you? Your last broadcast
like the final song of our beloved parakeet
as it flew past the leafless trees toward
the vast dome of heaven.
| Ruben Quesada | Living,Youth,Activities,School & Learning,Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Home Life,Social Commentaries,Race & Ethnicity | null |
Crosscurrent
|
For James Welch
The first harvest of wheat in flatlands
along the Milk startled me into thoughts of you
and this place we both remember and also forget as home.
Maybe it was the familiarity or maybe it was my own
need to ask if you have ever regretted leaving.
What bends, what gives?
And have you ever missed this wind?—it has now
grown warm with late summer, but soon
it will be as dangerous as the bobcat stalking calves
and pets just south of the river.
Men take out their dogs, a case of beer and wait
in their pickups for dawn, for a chance with their rifles.
They don’t understand that she isn’t going to make
any mistakes. With winter my need for an answer
grows more desperate and there are only four roads out.
One is the same cat hunters drive with mannish glory
and return along, gun still oil-shined and unshot.
Another goes deeper into Assiniboine territory:
This is the one I should talk myself into taking next.
I haven’t much traveled the third except to visit
a hospital where, after the first time,
my mother had refused chemotherapy.
And the last road you know as well as I do—
past the coral-painted Catholic church, its doors
long ago sealed shut to the mouth of Mission Canyon,
then south just a ways, to where the Rockies cut open
and forgive. There you and I are on the ascent.
After that, the arrival is what matters most.
| M.L. Smoker | Living,Life Choices,Activities,Travels & Journeys,Relationships,Family & Ancestors | null |
Reemergence of the Noose
|
Some lamp sputters
its dusty light
across some desk.
Some hand, shaking,
works the strained
rope, twisting and knifing,
weaving, tugging tight
a bellowing circle. Randy
Travis, steamy drawl
and hiccup on the staticky
AM, backs the ritual
of drooping loop.
Sweat drips an awful
hallelujah. God glares
askance, but the artist
doesn’t waver—wrists
click cadence, knots
become a path to what
makes saviors. The sagging
hoop bemoans a need
to squeeze, its craving
for a breath within the ring.
| Patricia Smith | Religion,God & the Divine,Social Commentaries,Crime & Punishment,History & Politics,Race & Ethnicity | null |
10-Year-Old Shot Three Times, but She’s Fine
|
Dumbfounded in hospital whites, you are picture-book
itty-bit, floundering in bleach and steel. Braids untwirl
and corkscrew, you squirm, the crater in your shoulder
spews a soft voltage. On a TV screwed into the wall
above your head, neon rollicks. A wide-eyed train
engine perfectly smokes, warbles a song about forward.
Who shot you, baby?I don’t know. I was playing.
You didn’t see anyone?I was playing with my friend Sharon.I was on the swingand she was—
Are you sure you didn’t—No, I ain’t seen nobody but Sharon. I heardpeople yelling though, and—
Each bullet repainted you against the brick, kicked
you a little sideways, made you need air differently.
You leaked something that still goldens the boulevard.I ain’t seen nobody, I told you.
And at A. Lincoln Elementary on Washington Street,
or Jefferson Elementary on Madison Street, or Adams
Elementary just off the Eisenhower Expressway,
we gather the ingredients, if not the desire, for pathos:
an imploded homeroom, your empty seat pulsating
with drooped celebrity, the sometime counselor
underpaid and elsewhere, a harried teacher struggling
toward your full name. Anyway your grades weren’t
all that good. No need to coo or encircle anything,
no call for anyone to pull their official white fingers
through your raveled hair, no reason to introduce
the wild notion of loving you loud and regardless.
Oh, and they’ve finally located your mama, who
will soon burst in with her cut-rate cure of stammering
Jesus’ name. Beneath the bandages, your chest crawls
shut. Perky ol’ Thomas winks a bold-faced lie from
his clacking track, and your heart monitor hums
a wry tune no one will admit they’ve already heard.
Elsewhere, 23 seconds rumble again and again through
Sharon’s body. Boom, boom, she says to no one.
| Patricia Smith | Living,Youth,Social Commentaries,Crime & Punishment,Race & Ethnicity | null |
When Black Men Drown Their Daughters
|
When black, men drown. They spend their whole lifetimes
justifying the gall of springing the trap, the inconvenience
of slouched denim, of coupling beyond romance or aim.
All the while, the rising murk edges toward their chins.
Hurriedly, someone crafts another scientific tome, a giddy
exploration of the curious dysfunction identifying black
men first as possible, then as necessary. Elegant equations
succumb to a river that blurs quotient and theory, rendering
them unreadable, and the overwhelm easily disappears
the men, their wiry heads glistening, then gulped. All that’s
left is the fathers’ last wisdom, soaked wreckage on silver:Girl, that water ain’t nothing but wet. I’m gon’ be alright.
When black men drown, their daughters turn to their mothers
and ask What should I do with this misnamed shiver in myleft shoulder? How should I dress in public? They are weary
of standing at the shore, hands shading their eyes, trying
to make out their own fathers among the thousands bobbing
in the current. The mothers mumble and point to any flailing
that seems familiar. Mostly, they’re wrong. Buoyed by church
moans and comfort food of meat and cream, the daughters
try on other names that sound oddly broken when pressed
against the dank syllables of the fathers’. Drained, with justforward in mind, they walk using the hip of only one parent.
They scratch in their sleep. Black water wells up in the wound.
When black men drown, their daughters are fascinated with
the politics of water, how gorgeously a surface breaks
to receive, how it weeps so sanely shut. And the thrashing
of hands, shrieking of names: I was Otis, I was Willie Earl,they called me Catfish. Obsessed by the waltzing of tides,
the daughters remember their fathers—the scorch of beard
electrifying the once-in-a-while kiss, the welts in thick arms,
eyes wearied with so many of the same days wedged behind
them. When black men drown, their daughters memorize all
the steps involved in the deluge. They know how long it takes
for a weakened man to dissolve. A muted light, in the shape
of a little girl, used to be enough to light a daddy’s way home.
When black men drown, their daughters drag the water’s floor
with rotting nets, pull in whatever still breathes. They insist their
still-dripping daddies sit down for cups of insanely sweetened
tea, sniffs of rotgut, tangled dinners based on improbable swine.
The girls hope to reacquaint their drowned fathers with the concept
of body, but outlines slosh in drift and retreat. The men can’t get
dry. Parched, they scrub flooded hollows and weep for water
to give them name and measure as mere blood once did. Knocking
over those spindly-legged dinette chairs, they interrupt the failed
feast and mutter Baby girl, gotta go, baby gotta go, their eyes
misted with their own murders. Grabbing their girls, they spit
out love in reverse and stumble toward the banks of some river.
When black men drown their daughters, the rash act is the only
plausible response to the brain’s tenacious mouth and its dare: Yes, yes, open your ashed hands and release that wingless child. Note
the arc of the sun-drenched nosedive, the first syllable of the child’s
name unwilling from the man’s mouth, the melody of billow that
begins as blessed clutch. Someone crouching inside the father waits
impatiently for the shutting, the lethargic envelop, and wonders if
the daughter’s wide and realizing eye will ever close to loose him.
It never will, and the man and his child and the daughter and her
father gaze calmly into the wrecked science of each other’s lives.
The sun struggles to spit a perfect gold upon the quieting splash.
The river pulses stylish circles of its filth around the swallow.
| Patricia Smith | Living,Death,Sorrow & Grieving,Love,Realistic & Complicated,Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Social Commentaries,Race & Ethnicity | null |
Delores Jepps
|
It seems insane now, but
she’d be standing soaked
in schoolday morning light,
her loose-leaf notebook,
flickering at the bus stop,
and we almost trembled
at the thought of her mouth
filled for a moment with both
of our short names. I don’t know
what we saw when we saw
her face, but at fifteen there’s
so much left to believe in,
that a girl with sunset
in her eyes, with a kind smile,
and a bright blue miniskirt softly
shading her bare thighs really
could be The Goddess. Even
the gloss on her lips sighedKiss me and you’ll never
do homework again. Some Saturdays
my ace, Terry, would say, “Guess
who was buying Teaberry gum
in the drugstore on Stenton?”
And I could see the sweet
epiphany still stunning his eyes
and I knew that he knew
that I knew he knew I knew—
especially once summer had come,
and the sun stayed up till we had
nothing else to do but wish
and wonder about fine sistas
in flimsy culottes and those hotpants!
James Brown screamed about: Crystal
Berry, Diane Ramsey, Kim Graves,
and her. This was around 1970: Vietnam
to the left of us, Black Muslims
to the right, big afros all over my
Philadelphia. We had no idea
where we were, how much history
had come before us—how much
cruelty, how much more dying
was on the way. For me and Terry,
it was a time when everything said
maybe, and maybe being blinded
by the beauty of a tenth grader
was proof that, for a little while,
we were safe from the teeth
that keep chewing up the world.
I’d like to commend
my parents for keeping calm,
for not quitting their jobs or grabbing
guns and for never letting up
about the amazing “so many doors
open to good students.” I wish
I had kissed
Delores Jepps. I wish I could
have some small memory of her
warm and spicy mouth to wrap
these hungry words around. I
would like to have danced with her,
to have slow-cooked to a slow song
in her sleek, toffee arms: her body
balanced between the Temptations’
five voices and me—a boy anointed
with puberty, a kid with a B
average and a cool best friend.
I don’t think I’ve ever understood
how lonely I am, but I was
closer to it at fifteen because
I didn’t know anything: my heart
so near the surface of my skin
I could have moved it with my hand.
| Tim Seibles | Living,Youth,Love,First Love,Infatuation & Crushes,Social Commentaries,History & Politics | null |
Blade, Unplugged
|
It’s true: I almost never
smile, but that doesn’t mean
I’m not in love: my heart
is that black violin
played slowly. You know that
moment late in the solo
when the voice
is so pure you feel
the blood in it: the wound
between rage
and complete surrender. That’s
where I’m smiling. You just
can’t see it—the sound
bleeding perfectly
inside me. The first time
I killed a vampire I was
sad: I mean
we were almost
family.
But that’s
so many lives
ago. I believe
in the cry that cuts
into the melody, the strings
calling back the forgotten world.
When I think of the madness
that has made me and the midnight
I walk inside—all day long:
when I think of that
one note that breaks
what’s left of what’s
human in me, man,
I love everything
| Tim Seibles | Love,Realistic & Complicated,Mythology & Folklore,Ghosts & the Supernatural | null |
Donna James
|
I remember that first time:
the empty auditorium, her voice,
the dark all around us,
her mouth reaching into mine.
She was Freddy’s foxy older sister,
and I didn’t know why
she wanted to kiss me. She
had already finished high school
and probably shouldn’t have
been walking the halls, but
she always called me her friend.
So one Monday after gym,
I found myself beside myself
in front of her house—with my
trench coat and lunch bag—
probably not looking much
like Shaft. Inside, the air held
warm milk and we talked a bit
about her baby and her Aunt
who paid the rent painting cars.
Maybe she liked me because
we were both black and mostly
alone in the suburbs, but I hadn’t
thought about that. It was her voice
that got me—banked fire, the color
of dusk—her voice, and my name
was smoke in her mouth.
I think about it more than I should now,
that January noon—an hour before
algebra—how most days I’d be
thinking football or replaying
the seventy-some kisses I’d gotten
over those lean years, but that day
Donna and me were on the couch
munching potato chips. Rrruffles have rrridges, she kidded coming
from checking the baby who’d
slipped into a nap. I was kind of
disappointed that we hadn’t
done anything, but I needed time
to get back to school, so I started
to stand. She said wait, look at this mess,
and with her left hand, she
brushed the crumbs from my lap
the way you’d whisk away lint—
then, swept over my pants again—
to be thorough, I guessed, but slower
and then some more, as if her hand
were getting drowsy. You know
how sometimes you see something
but just can’t believe it—like a squirrel
bobbling a biscuit on your kitchen counter
or a cricket creeping the red feathers
of your mother’s Sunday hat?
Her hand there, on my lap,
could easily have been a five-fingered
flying saucer from the fifth dimension.
For awhile, I just watched and
wondered if she knew where
her hand had landed but it was me
who didn’t know: me with my
six dozen kisses and the great Eden
of my virginity. How
do we not talk about it
every day: the ways
we were changed
by the gift
in someone’s touch—your body,
suddenly a bright instrument
played by an otherwise
silent divinity.
When I heard my zipper, I couldn’t
have said where my arms
were or what a clock was for:
I had
no idea I could be such a stranger
and still be myself. How could I
have known what a girl
might do to a boy
with her mouth if she felt
like doing what her mouth
could do? It was
a kind of miracle: the dreamedimpossible—my soul finally called
to my flesh. I didn’t know
what I didn’t know and then I knew.
| Tim Seibles | Living,Coming of Age,Love,Desire,First Love | null |
A Half-Life of Cardio-Pulmonary Function
|
I used to think
that if I loved hard
enough and long enough
passion would always win out
like the way I loved
cologne, venturing teenaged into
congested malls, abusing testers
only a salesperson surly enough
inquiring if he or she could help
me in any way, spitting
the prices of even the smallest
bottles of the scents I had
slathered on, forcing me out
in a cloud of confidence
that I was the Calvin Klein
Man, not the Old Spice
Man, not the Zest
Man, and certainly not
the My Drafty House Is Warmed Badly
by Kerosene Heaters Man
impervious to my real
life where I would sneak
down in the middle
of the night, passing
snow collecting
on the inside of the window
sill, trying to descend
the stairs silently
to complete the night lying
before the stove’s vents blowing
sooty warm air deep into my
sleeping lungs, clutching
a broken lacrosse stick
to intimidate rats so brazen
our housecats accepted
them as equal occupants
until I exit those automatic
doors, leave fountains where
just out of range I envy white
families tossing entire
cigarette packs’ worth
of what they call spare
change, wishing for things
they could already buy if they wanted
laughing as those presidential
faces fall sometimes up
and sometimes down, all drowning
in three inches of chlorinated well water
return to the reservation
where my sister-
in-law embraces me later
the same day, drawing
deeply, saying she loves
the scent of burned heating
oil on men, that it reminds
her of when she and my brother
dated and she would hold
him long in those last moments
before allowing him to walk out
her door, meander through snowy
grooves, finding his way home
while she looked out windows
where ice crystals gathered
on the proper side of the pane
holding her breath as long as she
dared, letting his presence seep
out only when she could no longer
bear, leaving him to be a vapor ghost
on her window, a fog sure
to vanish even before she turned
from the window and here I am
years later living in that same
state, you miles away and I,
knowing how presence disperses
into air, wonder how long
I can hold my breath.
| Eric Gansworth | Love,Heartache & Loss,Relationships,Men & Women,Social Commentaries,Money & Economics,Race & Ethnicity | null |
Heart Butte, Montana
|
The unsympathetic wind, how she has evaded me for years now,
leaving a guileless shell and no way to navigate. Once when I stood
on a plateau of earth just at the moment before the dangerous,
jutting peaks converged upon the lilting sway of grasslands, I almost
found a way back. There, the sky, quite possibly all the elements,
caused the rock and soil and vegetation to congregate. Their prayer
was not new and so faint I could hardly discern. Simple remembrances,
like a tiny, syncopated chorus calling everyone home: across
a thousand eastward miles, and what little wind was left at my back.
But I could not move. And then the music was gone.
All that was left were the spring time faces of mountains, gazing down,
their last patches of snow, luminous. I dreamed of becoming snow melt,
gliding down the slope and in to the valley. With the promise,
an assurance, that there is always a way to become bird, tree, water again.
| M.L. Smoker | Activities,Travels & Journeys,Nature,Landscapes & Pastorals | null |
The Talking Day
|
Some lunatic with a gun killed some people at an
immigration center in Binghamton, New York. Liz
Rosenberg and her family live up there and David, her
husband, teaches in the middle school which is close to
all the action (the way, in any smallish town, everything is
close to all the action). I called Liz to see if everyone was
all right and she was in her car driving to the elementary
school to pick up Lily, her young daughter she brought
back from China a few years ago. Lily was fine, but
Liz wanted to move her outside the question of how to
make sense of the broken pieces of “someone” with a
gun walking into a public space and then firing. There’s
something called (I learned from a news report the day of
the shootings at Virginia Tech) The Talking Day which
refers to the day immediately following the day when
something wildly violent happens. No one quite grasps
the reality of the situation and everyone spends that first day
talking about what happened and reliving it as language—
not so much to understand the violence but to make a
kind of recording of it: talking about it, letting go of it,
putting it down. And so I imagine it must be with Liz and
Lily and David in Binghamton, New York today: letting
“something” go. Liz is in her car after having just picked up
Lily at school and driving back home through a town that
suddenly makes no sense and she is telling the story about
what happened when a young man walked into a building
with a gun. And for Lily, who’s had a pretty serene, un-
violent United States time so far and whose endless joy
has made her an adorable chatterbox, tomorrow could be
her first talking day. Or, if not tomorrow, some other day.
We live in a talking day world.
| Michael Klein | Arts & Sciences,Language & Linguistics,Social Commentaries,History & Politics,War & Conflict | null |
Dancing
|
The radio clicks on—it’s poor swollen America,
Up already and busy selling the exhausting obligation
Of happiness while intermittently debating whether or not
A man who kills fifty people in five minutes
With an automatic weapon he has bought for the purpose
Is mentally ill. Or a terrorist. Or if terrorists
Are mentally ill. Because if killing large numbers of people
With sophisticated weapons is a sign of sickness—
You might want to begin with fire, our early ancestors
Drawn to the warmth of it—from lightning,
Must have been, the great booming flashes of it
From the sky, the tree shriveled and sizzling,
Must have been, an awful power, the odor
Of ozone a god’s breath; or grass fires,
The wind whipping them, the animals stampeding,
Furious, driving hard on their haunches from the terror
Of it, so that to fashion some campfire of burning wood,
Old logs, must have felt like feeding on the crumbs
Of the god’s power and they would tell the story
Of Prometheus the thief, and the eagle that feasted
On his liver, told it around a campfire, must have been,
And then—centuries, millennia—some tribe
Of meticulous gatherers, some medicine woman,
Or craftsman of metal discovered some sands that,
Tossed into the fire, burned blue or flared green,
So simple the children could do it, must have been,
Or some soft stone rubbed to a powder that tossed
Into the fire gave off a white phosphorescent glow.
The word for chemistry from a Greek—some say Arabic—
Stem associated with metal work. But it was in China
Two thousand years ago that fireworks were invented—
Fire and mineral in a confined space to produce power—
They knew already about the power of fire and water
And the power of steam: 100 BC, Julius Caesar’s day.
In Alexandria, a Greek mathematician produced
A steam-powered turbine engine. Contain, explode.
“The earliest depiction of a gunpowder weapon
Is the illustration of a fire-lance on a mid-12th-century
Silk banner from Dunhuang.” Silk and the silk road.
First Arab guns in the early fourteenth century. The English
Used cannons and a siege gun at Calais in 1346.
Cerigna, 1503: the first battle won by the power of rifles
When Spanish “arquebusiers” cut down Swiss pikemen
And French cavalry in a battle in southern Italy.
(Explosions of blood and smoke, lead balls tearing open
The flesh of horses and young men, peasants mostly,
Farm boys recruited to the armies of their feudal overlords.)
How did guns come to North America? 2014,
A headline: DIVERS DISCOVER THE SANTA MARIA
One of the ship’s Lombard cannons may have been stolen
By salvage pirates off the Haitian reef where it had sunk.
And Cortes took Mexico with 600 men, 17 horses, 12 cannons.
And LaSalle, 1679, constructed a seven-cannon barque,
Le Griffon, and fired his cannons upon first entering the
continent’s
Interior. The sky darkened by the terror of the birds.
In the dream time, they are still rising, swarming,
Darkening the sky, the chorus of their cries sharpening
As the echo of that first astounding explosion shimmers
On the waters, the crew blinking at the wind of their wings.
Springfield Arsenal, 1777. Rock Island Arsenal, 1862.
The original Henry rifle: a sixteen shot .44 caliber rimfire
Lever-action, breech-loading rifle patented—it was an age
Of tinkerers—by one Benjamin Tyler Henry in 1860,
Just in time for the Civil War. Confederate casualties
In battle: about 95,000. Union casualties in battle:
About 110,000. Contain, explode. They were throwing
Sand into the fire, a blue flare, an incandescent green.
The Maxim machine gun, 1914, 400-600 small caliber rounds
Per minute. The deaths in combat, all sides, 1914-1918
Was 8,042,189. Someone was counting. Must have been.
They could send things whistling into the air by boiling water.
The children around the fire must have shrieked with delight
1920: Iraq, the peoples of that place were “restive,”
Under British rule and the young Winston Churchill
Invented the new policy of “aerial policing,” which amounted,
Sources say, to bombing civilians and then pacifying them
With ground troops. Which led to the tactic of terrorizing
civilian
Populations in World War II. Total casualties in that war,
Worldwide: soldiers, 21 million; civilians, 27 million.
They were throwing sand into the fire. The ancestor who stole
Lightning from the sky had his guts eaten by an eagle.
Spread-eagled on a rock, the great bird feasting.
They are wondering if he is a terrorist or mentally ill.
London, Dresden. Berlin. Hiroshima, Nagasaki.
The casualties difficult to estimate. Hiroshima:
66,000 dead, 70,000 injured. In a minute. Nagasaki:
39,000 dead, 25,000 injured. There were more people killed,
100,000, in more terrifying fashion in the firebombing
Of Tokyo. Two arms races after the ashes settled.
The other industrial countries couldn’t get there
Fast enough. Contain, burn. One scramble was
For the rocket that delivers the explosion that burns humans
By the tens of thousands and poisons the earth in the process.
They were wondering if the terrorist was crazy. If he was
A terrorist, maybe he was just unhappy. The other
Challenge afterwards was how to construct machine guns
A man or a boy could carry: lightweight, compact, easy to
assemble.
First a Russian sergeant, a Kalashnikov, clever with guns
Built one on a German model. Now the heavy machine gun.
The weapon of European imperialism through which
A few men trained in gunnery could slaughter native armies
In Africa and India and the mountains of Afghanistan,
Became “a portable weapon a child can operate.”
The equalizer. So the undergunned Vietnamese insurgents
Fought off the greatest army in the world. So the Afghans
Fought off the Soviet army using Kalashnikovs the CIA
Provided to them. They were throwing powders in the fire
And dancing. Children’s armies in Africa toting AK-47s
That fire thirty rounds a minute. A round is a bullet.
An estimated 500 million firearms on the earth.
100 million of them are Kalashnikov-style semi-automatics.
They were dancing in Orlando, in a club. Spring night.
Gay Pride. The relation of the total casualties to the history
Of the weapon that sent exploded metal into their bodies—
30 rounds a minute, or 40, is a beautifully made instrument,
And in America you can buy it anywhere—and into the history
Of the shaming culture that produced the idea of Gay Pride—
They were mostly young men, they were dancing in a club,
A spring night. The radio clicks on. Green fire. Blue fire.
The immense flocks of terrified birds still rising
In wave after wave above the waters in the dream time.
Crying out sharply. As the French ship breasted the vast
interior
Of the new land. America. A radio clicks on. The Arabs,
A commentator is saying, require a heavy hand. Dancing.
| Robert Hass | Living,Death,Sorrow & Grieving,Social Commentaries,History & Politics,War & Conflict | null |
Stonewall to Standing Rock
|
who by the time it arrived
had made its plan heretofore
stonewall it had not a penny
thats not true it had several pennies
can you make a sovereign nation a national park how condescending
instead just tell them to honor the treaty
what can poetry do it
cant not not do nothing
it must undulate w/ the 2:30 pm dance music the sole
patrons at stonewall
there was a shooting in ohio today
the music made me feel a little anxious it was
hard thumping dance music a notch
upwards of 100 bpm notoriously the beat of life
the optimum tempo for cpr
I consider downloading a metronome real quick to test it to tap it out but
I don’t want to be ‘anywhere near’ my phone
meaning it’s in my bag on the stool 2 feet from me
there is an amy winehouse video on no sound at least
I think it is amy winehouse
she is at a funeral black and white
there is a stuffed bird slightly obscuring my view of the tv
it looks like a kind of tall pigeon w/ mottled brown
and russet with a white ringlet necklace and black dots
is it a carrier pigeon I wonder I sent
a text to jocelyn at standing rock several texts
are you still on the road
ariana and i r gonna go out there in december
sending love to you
tried calling bt yr mailbox is full
send a sign when u can xoxo
howdy. thinking of u w love.
hope all is well. send smoke
signal telegram carrier pigeon
send love to my twospirits at the
winyan camp.
last night we prayed for her and for zephyr and l. frank &
the twospirits especially at standing rock
there’s no sign of that struggle here but they are selling tshirts
commemorating
the other and the six days of riots
led by transwomen of color they later tried to whitewash in that
terrible movie
like it was all these hot angry upright downright forthright white gays
so ready
for the revolution
and now people are treating standing rock like burning man
a drink called goslings
videos by the pigeon misaligned with the music
the smell of booze in the air made both of us recoil slightly I saw
or felt it
I’m here to make a poem I was already paid for when I had less than $2 in
my bank account (and I joked I would go right to the bar and buy every-
body drinks ) not even enough for a subway ride and I used the 58 cents I’d
gotten for busking for the first time alone in the long hallway between the
library at bryant park and the orange line trains by the ovid quote ‘gutta
cavat lapidem’ water (or a drop of water really) hollows out
a stone. lapidum a stone or rock ariana once described cd wright’s style
as ‘lapidary’
I loved this as a description of writing like the hieroglyphics are
literally lapidary and I told my grandmother about it as we
were driving from mescalero to albuquerque she knew all about the
plants and the names for all the rockforms mesas or buttes or
ziggurats and I said how do
you know all these she said by long observation and
I used to study geology in college I wanted to major in it
but they wouldn’t allow women
to major in the hard sciences then so she
began to study religion
tho she already had medicine
ricky martin on the beach
or is it someone younger sexier
the grand canyon splitting apart
is it an ad is it a video
even the sands at the beach
are bouncing with the beat
the tempo has stayed very similar this whole time a tick
up I suspect from 100bpm
| Julian Talamantez Brolaski | Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Gay, Lesbian, Queer,Social Commentaries,History & Politics,Money & Economics,Race & Ethnicity,War & Conflict | null |
Psalm For My Faith
|
Lord, it’s not true
That my faith is cooling.
It’s just that people
Are saying that candle smoke
Has caused cancer in church mice.
And I also worry that candle light
Is too weak to reach your cloud.
Do I need a hydrogen candle?
Are the Angels into lasers?
Lord, as I think about it,
Lately I haven’t had much to thank you for.
Are you on vacation?
| Jack Agüeros | Religion,Faith & Doubt,God & the Divine | null |
Alan, American Dreamer
|
Alan drives a cab at night,
Has cab driver’s elbow
In his left arm,
Sells real estate by day.
Alan dreams of a big deal,
Of opening a classy poolhall.
Has a four million dollar deal
Which will probably fall through,
Has a big land deal with the Post Office
But it will take 20 years to deliver
Because they are so slow.
Alan collects baseball cards and comic books
Hates condos and townhouses
Though he lives in one.
Was a trader for nineteen and one-half years
Then fired when the market melted.
Alan, even if he was rich,
Would not let his stepdaughter
By his second wife
Have her own phone and private line
Like her rich friend Rebecca has
Because after all she is only twelve.
Alan, half Jewish, has three tattoos.
“I got them recently because I wanted them.
My Jewish aunt nearly had a stroke
When she saw them.”
Alan admits he is a pack rat saving
Everything, loves wood, restoration, and antiques.
Alan admires the people who buy old houses
And fix them up.
Hates the development of Staten Island
Blaming it on the people from Brooklyn.
Alan was cooking sausages and onions
(His other half is Italian)
In his back yard
When a woman knocked his parked car
Into the next block,
Totaled it; he got $1,200 more
Than it was worth.
Alan found a turtle and put
It in a safe stream,
Stopped a dog from killing a cock
In historic Richmondtown.
Alan hates the dump—
ninety-four percent of the garbage there
Is dropped by the other boroughs—
Likes the idea of secession,
Staten Island free and independent.
Alan apologetically asks
If he didn’t talk too much
As he brings me to my destination.
He leaves me a great silence
And I wish I had one million American bucks
To tip the exuberant Alan.
Alan, take this million bucks
Strip the paint off the good wood of your dreams
And tattoo the tedious days.
| Jack Agüeros | Living,Disappointment & Failure,Social Commentaries,Money & Economics | null |
Cell Block on Chena River
|
First: Brother, remove the tool marks on your scathed skin, brush your tattoos with
nettles, smear bearberry juice in the gashes. Crack open the jail-seed.
Second: Tear away the bars which restrain
your lean, spare life. Bend your curves in a knot. Brother, smudge your
saw-tooth edges.
Third: Cut red seaweed to conceal your gray cadaver;
start wetting your skin down; after scraping,
drip your bowels of blood, change into wolf.
Fourth: The savannah sparrow flies north.
In speech, smell fine-grained hawthorn.
Collapse your voice into bark and howl.
| dg nanouk okpik | Social Commentaries,Crime & Punishment,Mythology & Folklore,Ghosts & the Supernatural | null |
Warming
|
She and I make a bladder bag to draw water from the ice trench.
She/I chain stitch/es a skin dressed in oil to make a new pot of soup.
She/I sew/s a badger hair rough around the top of her/my kamiks
to make the steps windward, toward the limits of woman.
She/I eat/s club root and white clover to strengthen her/my silver
body to bear a child. She/I map/s, following 1 degree from the North
Star and 60 degrees from the end of the earth’s axis on rotation
for Ukpeagvik she/I use/s a small arc of ice, cleaving into parts, reduced
to simple curves fitted with serrated edges of white flesh. She/I mold/s
to the fretted neck of frozen water into a deep urn, made like a rock shelter
or a cavern. She/I construct/s a hole on the surface of a glacier formed by melting particles
of roe and pan reservoir dust from a shelter for the ice worms. Because the earth is
molding, burning, laughing, and purging its crust.
| dg nanouk okpik | Nature,Weather | null |
If Oil Is Drilled in Bristol Bay
|
Why is it, in Bristol Bay, a sea cormorant
hovers, sings a two-fold song with a hinged cover
for a mouth, teeth set in sockets, with a hissing grind
of spikelets biting the air? Dip one.
The lips of vanished flames in lava coals
glow vermillion as an egg cracks. Dip two.
She/I feel/s a chimera leaving the eider duck. Dip three.
While still in the embryo, separating the body
from death she/I smell/s of arsenic, the Chugach Range
in unnatural bitterness. Why is it, man’s/woman’s nerve scarcely
stifled and sane, comes to prey? While they swoon
minerals of crude oil and sea spiders for tricking a way for gold.
Will they crawl around her/me, sink their eyeteeth in the sea,
ravaging the ecosphere and the ore gold for fuel. Drill.
| dg nanouk okpik | Nature,Seas, Rivers, & Streams,Social Commentaries,History & Politics,Money & Economics | null |
By Action
|
Thinking to see them there, captains
industrious in
morning sun, I crack the egg’s tender
yellow head
Love comes to me un-
repentant, toward it all vectors
converge repeating, like
moment of the necessary form
I pluck a feather from your neck
On the page one alights without permission, or
love is
an assemblage
beginning each day identical, palpable I
remarks of, is it that music or need edits
my body
two people leave a shopping mall
with goods, death squad hovering high
a streetlamp
Call your mother, stay up late
to watch the neighborhood
undressing light, like
multiple phone calls
connected then
hung up, get the family together soon, watch
American bison overtake the field
filling a vehicle lane in early snow
obstructed I paused
To see it, their dark furs shaking enormous
out of trees they descended from the line of sky
respond to a much deeper instinct
we were then back on our way
input later to the search bar
I love keywords, like
love is
an exodus
I imagine you sleeping, then a pyramid or
chandelier throwing sunlight
An absence emerges, sharp
I regard the whole
practice of it
touch it
| Wendy Xu | Love,Romantic Love,Nature,Animals,Social Commentaries,War & Conflict | null |
Task Force
|
Moved all the way here to watch
television alone, swallowed by the grim
news grinning. Fuck a five year plan, first
one passes through Tiananmen the gate
of heavenly peace, emptied public square finery
in summer, purple cupping red azaleas
Happy birth upon a time, Nation!
Reveling in my love for him coquettish
worried, approaching paranoia
for the home country removed that June
The cropped photo best dilated
in our pockets black and white
It was a long hard road continuously reading
analysis metrics, my father knew a guy
worked in sales, was there and saw
them roll in like nothing else
Black pillars to the effective dispersal
I felt nothing pulling
from the airport’s narrowing gate
In the photo we still get perfectly centered
Longview the idiot’s
consumption guide, naturally then
my love for was only
| Wendy Xu | Living,Sorrow & Grieving,Social Commentaries,History & Politics,War & Conflict | null |
The Years
|
Such were they, a dumb stuffed thing
to say, if truth is we all grow old un-
observed, limbs flail only halfway up
a flight, where does dark begin settling
my little bones. I dream and do love
to have them, blue fish
in a lake, my head more tipped up than down
under damp earth. Some days others like deer
from the shot, peeled back, how I
find trees dressed in wild
green light. The years come, unstitched
a face, saddled as one would a heavy beast
for walking. Likely I became then a member
of heaven, put up, the years come and reaching
their long wet hands.
| Wendy Xu | Living,Growing Old,Time & Brevity | null |
Progress Notes
|
The age of portrait is drugged. Beauty
is symmetry so rare it’s a mystery.
My left eye is smaller than my right,
my big mouth shows my nice teeth perfectly
aligned like Muslims in prayer.
My lips an accordion. Each sneeze
a facial thumbprint. One corner
of my mouth hangs downward when I want
to hold a guffaw hostage. Bell’s palsy perhaps
or what Mark Twain said about steamboat piloting,
that a doctor’s unable to look upon the blush
in a young beauty’s face without thinking
it could be a fever, a malar rash,
a butterfly announcing a wolf. Can I lie
facedown now as cadavers posed
on first anatomy lesson? I didn’t know mine
was a woman until three weeks later
we turned her over. Out of reverence
there was to be no untimely exposure of donors,
our patrons who were covered in patches
of scrubs-green dish towels,
and by semester’s end we were sick of all that,
tossed mega livers and mammoth hearts
into lab air and caught them. My body
was Margaret. That’s what the death certificate said
when it was released before finals. The cause
of her death? Nothing memorable,
frail old age. But the colonel on table nineteen
with an accessory spleen had put a bullet through
his temple, a final prayer. Not in entry or exit
were there skull cracks to condemn the house
of death, no shattered glass in the brain,
only a smooth tunnel of deep violet that bloomed
in concentric circles. The weekends were lonely.
He had the most beautiful muscles
of all 32 bodies that were neatly arranged,
zipped up as if a mass grave had been disinterred.
Or when unzipped and facing the ceiling
had cloth over their eyes as if they’d just been executed.
Gray silver hair, chiseled countenance,
he was sixty-seven, a veteran of more than one war.
I had come across that which will end me, ex-
tend me, at least once, without knowing it.
| Fady Joudah | Living,Death,The Body,Activities,School & Learning | null |
The Amazon River Dolphin
|
The sudden pink shape
surfacing in black-water lagoons
shocked explorers.
All dolphins share man’s
thumb and fingerbones,
but these also wear his flesh.
When the river overflows
and floods the varzea,
these dolphins travel miles
to splash in the shallows
amongst buttress-roots of giant
rainforest trees.
The waters abate, trapping fish,
dolphins never.
A lamp burning dolphin oil
blinds. At night
the pink-flesh contours melt and blur.
The flipper extends the hidden hand
to lift its woman’s torso
to the land. An Eve,
born each night from the black Amazon,
roams the dark banks for victims
to draw to the water and death.
Taboo to the Indians,
this pink daughter of the river’s magic
always looks, to explorers,
like she’s smiling.
| Linda Rodriguez | Nature,Animals,Social Commentaries,Gender & Sexuality,History & Politics | null |
Making Enchiladas
|
We set up an assembly line.
I heat the tortillas in manteca
after Crystal dips them in chile ancho
and drains them. Niles carries full plates
of hot tortillas to his father,
who rolls them around spoonfuls of filling.
When we’ve finished the hot, greasy work,
I pour the last of the sauce over neat rows
of stuffed tortillas, sprinkle them with cheese,
clean the stove and counters.
The kids help their father rinse plates and pans.
They don’t know this is the last time.
The cheese melts. Crystal
dances to “No More Lonely Nights” on the radio.
Niles and his dad joke and wrestle.
After grace, we sit before steaming plates.
The kids stuff their mouths, insult each other,
and laugh. We can’t avoid their eyes
forever. Their father and I stare
at each other across the table.
| Linda Rodriguez | Living,Parenthood,Separation & Divorce,Activities,Eating & Drinking,Relationships,Friends & Enemies,Men & Women | null |
Instincts
|
A mother possum crawled down the chimney
the spring Donny came to us
because both sets of his parents had kicked him out,
the same April after your dad and I divorced
when you kicked a hole in the dining room wall.
The possum was swollen with young
she would later carry, half-grown, on her back
or hanging from her thick, hairless tail.
“An oversized rat with maternal instincts,”
your dad once said.
Instead of one angry son, I now had two–
fifteen and seventeen–
two forged signatures on absence excuses,
two discipline committee meetings,
two conferences with the principal.
While I worked,
you shared contraband beer,
as well as the basement bedroom
with its fieldstone fireplace
in which you found the possum one cool evening.
Laughing and cheering, you teamed up
to cage her with a trash can,
carry her to the alley out back and dump her.
The possum squeezed back
down the chimney twice more. The third time
you threw her out on Troost Avenue, screaming
for a car to smash her beneath its tires.
She must have been near her time,
desperate for a nest,
to crawl back down after that.
The noise woke me after midnight.
Donny had clubbed her with his nunchuks.
You both kicked and stomped
her head as she lurched, stumbled
between your feet.
Halfway down
the basement steps I stopped,
seeing your faces. The possum fell
limp. I backed slowly up the stairs.
In the morning, you couldn’t meet my eyes.
I just made you clean up the mess.
| Linda Rodriguez | Living,Death,Parenthood,Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Nature,Animals | null |
Joseph Sleeps,
|
his eyelids like a moth’s fringed wings.
Arms flail against the Ninja Turtle sheet
and suddenly-long legs
race time.
Awake, he’s a water-leak detector, a recycling ranger
who bans Styrofoam and asks for beeswax
crayons, a renewable resource.
He wants to adopt the Missouri river,
write the president
to make factories stop polluting.
They’re old friends, he and George Bush.
He writes and scolds
the president, every month or so,
about the bombing the children of Iraq
(he made his own sign to carry in protest),
about the plight of the California condor and northern gray wolf,
about more shelters and aid for the homeless.
The lion-shaped bulletin board in his room
is covered with pictures and letters from George,
who must be nice,
even if he is a slow learner.
Joseph is a mystery fan, owns 54 Nancy Drews.
Nancy’s his friend, along with Jo, Meg, and Amy
and poor Beth, of course, whom he still mourns.
He also reads of knights and wizards, superheroes,
and how to win at Nintendo.
The cats and houseplants are his to feed and water
and the sunflower blooming in the driveway’s border
of weeds. He drew our backyard to scale,
using map symbols, sent off to have it declared
an official wildlife refuge, left a good-night
note on my pillow, written in Egyptian hieroglyphs.
In my life, I have done one good thing.
| Linda Rodriguez | Living,Parenthood,Love | null |
Nights Are Another Country
|
in my house. Days we’re ordinary,
affectionate, a close,
happy couple, but nights
require a passport and serious
immunizations, warnings about
security and guerilla attacks.
You are a foreign ruler,
quite possibly benevolent
in intention – but we know how
these things always play out,
don’t we? – with needs alien
to and hostile to your citizenry,
me, without power
except to say, “No more,”
and hope to survive
the fallout from the battles
in the streets. Days, we’re
the peaceful, devoted
pair all our friends envy.
Nights are always tense
around the DMZ that is our bed
with occasional forays into the bush
where the enemy is always lying
in wait. Sleep is hard, fearful
and troubled. I dream us
going down in flames.
| Linda Rodriguez | Love,Realistic & Complicated,Relationships,Men & Women | null |
Watts Bleeds
|
Watts bleeds
leaving stained reminders
on dusty sidewalks.
Here where I strut alone
as glass lies broken by my feet
and a blanket of darkness is slung
across the wooden shacks
of nuetsra colonia.
Watts bleeds
dripping from carcasses of dreams:
Where despair
is old people
sitting on torn patio sofas
with empty eyes
and children running down alleys
with big sticks.
Watts bleeds
on vacant lots
and burned-out buildings–
temples desolated by a people’s rage.
Where fear is a deep river.
Where hate is an overgrown weed.
Watts bleeds
even as we laugh,
recall good times,
drink and welcome daylight
through the broken windshield
of an old Impala.
Here is the Watts of my youth,
where teachers threw me
from classroom to classroom,
not knowing where I could fit in.
Where I learned to fight or run,
where I zigzagged down alleys,
jumped over fences,
and raced by graffiti on crumbling
factory walls.
Where we played
between boxcars,
bleeding from
broken limbs and torn flesh,
and where years later
we shot up carga
in the playground
of our childhood.
Watts bleeds
as the shadow of the damned
engulfs all the chinga of our lives.
In the warmth of a summer night,
gunshots echo their deadly song
through the silence of fear;
prelude to a heartbeat.
Watts bleeds
as I bled
getting laid-off from work,
standing by my baby’s crib,
touching his soft check
and fingering his small hand
as dreams shatter again,
dreams of fathers
for little men.
Watts bleeds
and the city hemorrhages,
unable to stop the flow
from this swollen and festering sore.
Oh bloom, you trampled flower!
Come alive as once
you tried to do from the ashes.
Watts, bleeding and angry,
you will be free.
| Luis J. Rodríguez | Living,Disappointment & Failure,Parenthood,Social Commentaries,Cities & Urban Life,History & Politics | null |
Always Running
|
All night vigil.
My two-and-a-half-year-old boy
and his 10-month-old sister
lay on the same bed,
facing opposite ends;
their feet touching.
They looked soft, peaceful,
bundled there in strands of blankets.
I brushed away roaches that meandered
across their faces,
but not even that could wake them.
Outside, the dark cover of night tore
as daybreak bloomed like a rose
on a stem of thorns.
I sat down on the backsteps,
gazing across the yellowed yard.
A 1954 Chevy Bel-Air stared back.
It was my favorite possession.
I hated it just then.
It didn’t start when I tried to get it going
earlier that night. It had a bad solenoid.
I held a 12-gauge shotgun across my lap.
I expected trouble from the Paragons gang
of the west Lynwood barrio.
Somebody said I dove the car
that dudes from Colonia Watts used
to shoot up the Paragons’ neighborhood.
But I got more than trouble that night.
My wife had left around 10 p.m.
to take a friend of mine home.
She didn’t come back.
I wanted to kill somebody.
At moments, it had nothing to do
with the Paragons.
It had to do with a woman I loved.
But who to kill? Not her–
sweet allure wrapped in a black skirt.
I’d kill myself first.
Kill me first?
But she was the one who quit!
Kill her? No, think man! I was hurt, angry. . .
but to kill her? To kill a Paragon?
To kill anybody?
I went into the house
and put the gun away.
Later that morning, my wife came for her things:
some clothes, the babies. . . their toys.
A radio, broken TV, and some dishes remained.
I didn’t stop her.
There was nothing to say that my face
didn’t explain already.
Nothing to do. . . but run.
So I drove the long haul to Downey
and parked near an enclosed area
alongside the Los Angeles River.
I got out of the car,
climbed over the fence
and stumbled down the slopes.
A small line of water rippled in the middle.
On rainy days this place flooded and flowed,
but most of the time it was dry
with dumped garbage and dismembered furniture.
Since a child, the river and its veins of canals
were places for me to think. Places to heal.
Once on the river’s bed, I began to cleanse.
I ran.
I ran into the mist of morning,
carrying the heat of emotion
through the sun’s rays;
I ran past the factories
that lay smack in the middle
of somebody’s backyard.
I ran past alleys with overturned trashcans
and mounds of tires.
Debris lay underfoot. Overgrown weeds
scraped my legs as I streamed past;
recalling the song of bullets
that whirred in the wind.
I ran across bridges, beneath overhead passes,
and then back alongside the infested walls
of the concrete river;
splashing rainwater as I threaded,
my heels colliding against the pavement.
So much energy propelled my legs
and, just like the river,
it went on for miles.
When all was gone,
the concrete river
was always there
and me, always running.
| Luis J. Rodríguez | Living,Sorrow & Grieving,Love,Break-ups & Vexed Love,Heartache & Loss,Activities,Sports & Outdoor Activities | null |
Heavy Tells A Story
|
When Heavy tells a story
the millwright shanty under the electric furnaces
chokes with quiet, amid the roar,
as Heavy pauses, adjusts his mountainous weight
over a creaky grease-stained metal chair
and looks up at the whirling ceiling fan
next to fluorescent lights hanging by wires.
His fingers lace like so many sausages
across the canvas of blue workshirt
on his chest.
Heavy tells his story
and the voice of reason quickens the demise
of foulness from red-faced millwrights
just back from a repair job
and sitting around for the five air whistles
that again call them to combat on the furnace floor.
All laughter stops, all nonsense sayings
and cuts of wisdom cease their echo
when Heavy tells a story.
Heavy talks about the Mexican melter
who once had an affair with the Pit Boss’s wife.
The heart of the problem–and the fact
from which the story’s plot revolves–
was that the melter lived across the street
from the Pit Boss.
One night just before the graveyard shift,
the melter left his home, kissed his wife’s
round face and proceeded to walk to the bus stop.
But a bullet pierced through his hardhat
and he fell, like an overturned stack of fire bricks,
onto the pavement.
The moral of this story:
Never have an affair with someone
whose old man lives
within shooting distance.
Heavy tells a story
about a furnace foreman who always yelled
at the laborers for failing to clean
the bag house of the built-up filth
from hours of cooking scrap iron and ore.
The men told him it was too dangerous
to walk on the tin-roofed panels;
their weight could cause
them to fall some 30 feet
into the gaping mouth of a flaming furnace below.
“Nonsense,” the foreman yelled,
“you’re all just lazy Polacks.”
(he called everyone Polacks).
The foreman then proceeded to walk
across the roof as the men stood nearby,
with mouths open, near the safety of side beams.
“You see,” he said standing in the middle
as hydraulics moved shutters
up and down to capture the sulphur dust.
Then the foreman moved forward
and before anyone could shout,
he crashed through the roof,
screaming into a reddened pot of molten metal;
the oxygen in his body making popping sounds
as it entered. The furnace operates continued
to pour ladles of scrap iron and to melt the steel.
They skimmed the slag off the top
and when it was ready, they poured
the molten mass into ingot molds.
There was nothing they could do for the foreman,
they said. Production had to keep going.
Heavy looks into the eyes of his listeners and says:
Somewhere there’s a skyscraper in downtown LA
with steel beams made from the ingot
with the foreman’s body in it.
Somewhere there’s a bridge or underground pipe
with the man’s remains chemically bound
within the molecular structure.
Heavy tells a story. . .
and the men lay down their tools,
and coffee is poured into heavy ceramic cups,
the shanty stills beneath the rumbling,
and even foremen stop by
to pay a listen
when Heavy tells a story.
| Luis J. Rodríguez | Living,Death,Activities,Jobs & Working,Social Commentaries,Money & Economics | null |
Jordan
|
Continue to pour my thoughts out on this topic of discussion
Slow down, I keep gettin the feeling that I’m rushin
Like my cousin’s dying breaths, or the decision that was made
But lemme backtrack, letting feelings get in the way
A normal adolescent, aspiring for the highest
Goals that were attainable, wanted to be the flyest
We all searchin for something we’ve made a pact to do
The drive of ambition, it’s in us, it’s in you
Now snatch every dream that a mother had for her son
And replace that with a breath, “Baby, just take another one!”
A white man’s gun, the very courier of evil
He left, enjoyed his night, but the gunshots were lethal
Deceitful, everything we’ve been told from the start
We’ve more than just some ghetto thugs, these thoughts split us
apart
What you must understand is our culture bore from oppression
The Hip Hop inside of us a form of expression
I wish I had the chance to explain to Jordan’s killer
That the song “Beef” by Lil Reese shouldn’t label him a dealer
Or is he ignorant or another ghetto thug?
Do you understand that your ignorance filled him with 3 slugs?
I don’t want sympathy and I don’t want affection
I want this country to head in the right direction
Instead of discussin who the Grammys should be awardin
Work to prevent murders like those of my cousin, Jordan.
| Nick Arnold | Living,Death,Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Social Commentaries,Race & Ethnicity,War & Conflict | null |
Chief Totopotamoi, 1654
|
after Miller Williams
This is to say we continued. As though continuing changed us.
As though continuing brought happiness as we had known.
On a dry field without cover, his skin blistered raw in the sun.
Not one among us came, as though he had no relations.
What did we say to our brother? How could we leave him alone
while soldiers guarded his corpse as though precious to them?
One of the women, in darkness, crept to the field where he died,
prayed for him, covered him up. Dust over what was not dust.
We would have ventured out with her if we had loved ourselves less.
We had to think of our children, and he was not coming back.
How could we live with the silence, live with our grief and our shame?
Death did not heal what he suffered. He was making demands.
We did not want him to be there, asking the question he asked us,
changing the sound of his name. He had embarrassed us.
This is the memory we carried, avoiding the thought that he remained
face down among the charred grasses, holding the earth with his hands.
| Karenne Wood | Living,Death,Sorrow & Grieving,Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Social Commentaries,History & Politics,War & Conflict | null |
My Standard Response
|
I.
The first question is always phrased this way:
“So. How much Indian are you?”
II.
We did not live in tepees.
We did not braid our hair.
We did not fringe our shirts.
We did not wear war bonnets.
We did not chase the buffalo.
We did not carry shields.
We were never Plains Indians.
We tried to ride,
but we kept falling off of our dogs.
III.
A local official came to our office to ask our help with a city event. He had a splendid idea, he said. To kick off the event and show everyone in town that our tribe was still around, we should go up to the bluff overlooking the city and make a big smoke signal. Then they would know we were here.
Who ever heard of smoke signals in the forests? I imagined us upon the bluff, lighting one of those firestarter bricks. We haven’t made fire since the Boy Scouts took over. And how would the citizens know it was us? They’d probably call the fire department.
IV.
As they ask, they think, yes, I can see it in her face. High cheekbones
(whatever those are) and dark hair.
Here’s a thought: don’t we all have
high cheekbones? If we didn’t,
our faces would cave in.
(But I do have a colonized nose.)
I’m sick of explaining myself.
“You know,” I finally say,
“It doesn’t matter to my people.”
I ride off to my ranch-style home.
Time to weave a basket, or something.
| Karenne Wood | Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Social Commentaries,History & Politics,Race & Ethnicity | null |
The Lilies
|
When I learned I might have cancer,
I bought fifteen white lilies. Easter was gone:
the trumpets were wilted, plants crooked with roots
bound in pots. I dug them into the garden,
knowing they would not bloom for another year.
All summer, the stalks stood like ramshackle posts
while I waited for results. By autumn, the stalks
had flopped down. More biopsies, laser incisions,
the cancer in my tongue a sprawling mass. Outside,
the earth remained bare, rhizomes shrunken
below the frost line. Spring shoots appeared
in bright green skins, and lilies bloomed
in July, their waxed trumpets pure white,
dusting gold pollen to the ground.
This year,
tripled in number, they are popping up again. I wait,
a ceremony, for the lilies to open, for the serpentine length
of the garden to bloom in the shape of my tongue’s scar,
a white path with one end leading into brilliant air,
the other down the throat’s canyon, black
and unforgiving. I try to imagine
what could grow in such darkness. I am waiting
for the lilies to open.
| Karenne Wood | Living,Health & Illness,Activities,Gardening,Nature,Trees & Flowers,Get Well & Recovery | null |
Unemployment Lines
|
at the unemployment office
I know it can be a two hour deathly wait
before one’s name is called out
so I find a chair and bury my head
in a book that I brought to read
sitting beside me, a man and a woman converse
talk of years past, of people they knew
and Leonard, is he still in prison?
yeah, he’s still doing time well, that’s good, I guess, means he’s still alive
a young girl walks in, short black halter top
and airbrushed-on jeans
her breasts pouting up past a too-low neckline
the men, the women, all stare
whether they’d like to or not
Leonard’s friends exchange stories
yeah, my ex, she just wants my money I tell her, well, go work then!
and they laugh between the ironylife, huh, she tells him, it’s crazy, the things we get into,
he agrees
the rest of us caught silently in their exchange agree, as well
his arms are thick with hair
and tattoos of skills
and scrawled out
indecipherable letters of the alphabet
yeah, this chick that was riding with me once, he tells her
got her jacket belt caught on my wheel I didn’t even know it until I got to the next light
I went back, she was alright, just fell off, didn’t get hurt or nothing she was pissed though.
“just fell off, didn’t get hurt,” what does he mean?
this story just drops off, I want to know a little more, a lot more
I mean, how fast was the bike going when she fell off
did she ruin the belt, scrape her nose
did they drink a lot of beer afterwards?
and so the time drags by, the line lengthens
now and then people unbury their heads
from their midmorning dragging into noon thoughts
women adjust their bra straps
scold their kids with unfulfilled warnings
the folks behind the counter look at us
holding their half empty cups of coffee
ah, if only there was a dollar for every story
| Levi Romero | Social Commentaries,Class,Money & Economics | null |
Juxtaposition
|
throughout the years I have designed
high-end custom homes
crafting spatial poetics with vigas and latillas
hand peeled by mojados
whose sweat translates into profit for developers
working at a nifty rate
sometimes I go visit these homes
as they are being finished
may I help you?
I am asked by the realtor
standing at the door,
thinking that I may be the guy
who mixed the mud and pushed the wheelbarrow
I introduce myself as the designer
oh, well, it’s so nice to meet you, what a wonderful job!please, come in.
I was once asked by a home magazine journalist
if I felt insulted by such incidentswell, no, I said, my mind mixing for an answera good batch of cement is never accidental
last year on my way up through Santa Fe
I made a detour and drove by a house of my design
the season’s first snow on the ground,
smoke rising out of the fireplace chimney
inch by inch
I know that house
through its X, Y, and Z axis
but, I cannot approach the front door
knock and expect to be invited in
to sit in the corner of my pleasing
and lounge around with the owner
as we sip on cups of hot herbal tea
making small talk about the weather
or discussing a reading
by the latest author come through
as the sun’s last light
streams in gallantly
through the window
just where I placed it
and for that reason
I take a handful of snow to my mouth
toss another into the air
my blessings upon the inhabitantsque Dios los bendiga y les dé más
my grandfather would have said
I turn my car toward home
to my mother’s house
a place near and far to me
she, my mother, is bedridden
and my brother is the self-appointed caretaker
to bathe and feed her
bring her morsels of conversation
it is their own world now
ruled by a juxtaposition of understanding
against what I have come to know, now
here, so far and away
I am greeted at her front yard
by an old, propped up trunk hood
proclaiming my brother’s spray-painted inscription
Jesus Saves
on the opposite side it reads
Keep Out!
I guess it just depends on what kind of day he’s having,
someone once remarked
like a rattlesnake
it’s a fair warning
years ago I accepted this madness
and called it not my ownit’s better that he be drunk on Christ, said my motherthan on what he used to drink
we all agreed
| Levi Romero | Activities,Jobs & Working,Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Social Commentaries,Class,Race & Ethnicity | null |
Indian Mascot, 1959
|
Now begins the festival and rivalry of late fall,
the weird debauch and daring debacle
of frat-boy parties as students parade foggy streets in mock
processions, bearing on shoulders scrawny effigies of dead,
defeated Indians cut from trees, where,
in the twilight, they had earlier been hung.
"Just dummies," laughs our dad, "Red Indians hung
or burned—it's only in jest." Every fall
brings the Big Game against Stanford, where
young scholars let off steam before the debacle
they may face of failed exams. "You're dead
wrong," he says to Mom. "They don't mock
real, live Indians." Around UC campus, mock
lynchings go on. Beneath porches we see hung
the scarecrow Natives with fake long braids, dead
from the merrymaking. On Bancroft Way, one has fallen
indecorously to a lawn, a symbol of the debacle
that happened three generations ago in California's hills, where
Native peoples were strung up. (A way of having fun? Where
did they go, those Indian ghosts?) "Their kids perform mock
war dances, whooping, re-enacting scenes of a debacle
white folks let loose," chides Mom. "Meanwhile we hang
portraits of presidents on school walls and never let fall
the old red, white, and blue. My dear brother is dead
because he fought in a White man's war. How many dead
Indians do they need to feel okay? This whole thing wears
on my soul." In the dark car we go silent, and the fall
night gets chillier. In yards, blazing bonfires mock
the stars that glow palely somewhere above. A thin moon hangs
over the tule fogs. I've never heard the word "debacle”
before and wonder what it means. "What's a debacle,
Mom? " I ask. "Oh, honey, it's a terrible and deadly
collapse. Complete ruin." I've noticed how the hung
Indians have their heads slumped forward. They wear
old clothes, headbands with feathers, face paint, moc-
casins instead of boots. Little do we know, this fall,
living Indians at Feather Falls
leave tobacco to mark that, indeed,
we're still here, lungs full of indigenous air.
| Janice Gould | Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Social Commentaries,History & Politics,War & Conflict | null |
Discontent
|
We could hear her
knocking down strands of cobweb
from ceilings—sticky filaments,
sacs of eggs—as we woke most mornings
to a worm of discontent.
It lodged beneath the heart,
rubbed our frayed nerves,
gnawed at the gut, spleen,
ovaries. Filth
was Mom's first enemy, so each day
began with ritual cleaning: the stab
and sweep of the broom down the dark hall,
over the stained and scratched oak floors.
For weeks, she held her dust mop
one-handed, and with the other
cupped a hernia, while she swore
at us kids in that hard voice—a litany of our sins
and failures: sloth,
stupidity, secrecy.
We watched her
smash the spiders that ran, herky-jerky,
along the baseboards, while we ran, too.
Glaring at each other,
we gathered up the scattered
laundry, our father’s shoes,
his newspapers and tools, our books,
drawings, music, sweatshirts,
and jackets, whatever
we’d left lying around.
We were guilty, but good
at evasion. We cultivated
shrewish or obsessive behaviors of our own: my tough
older sister sneered and stalked out of the house
to meet her boyfriend;
my sweet younger sister
trembled and cried, comforted
by one of our many dogs.
I slammed doors, pounded them
with my fists, screamed, “Shut up,
shut up, shut up!” She couldn’t
leave us alone. She loved us
too much.
Though we were quick, she was
quicker. Her words stung.
We must have deserved it.
| Janice Gould | Living,Parenthood,Youth,Love,Realistic & Complicated,Activities,Indoor Activities,Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Home Life | null |
Six Sonnets: Crossing the West
|
1
Desert heat, high clouds, and sky
the color of lapis. On this journey,
anything seems possible,
so we stop by an ancient cottonwood
to kiss. The beauty trembles,
doesn't say a word, just watches
me, so open. Small birds fly by, flock
in the shady tree above us. What
settles in her heart? What congeals?
Hope? Despair? Far off, the river churns
in its sandy banks, swallows veer, turn
in fiery air. Will these kisses seal
her to me? I her lover, she my wife?
Is all of this a dream, my whole life?
2
She is just this side of wonderful,
and suddenly the glamorous world
fills itself with shining and we laugh
at highway monuments that explain
how hard the trek had been for Franciscans
in the Indian wilderness, poor fellows—
conversion is the devil's own
work! Then the stones of her dream
turn up under her feet, the back
of a huge land turtle. I know
we must be circling Paradise
because the ants enter the fleshy petals
of the roadside flowers with evident
joy and purpose (oh, my dark, pretty one).
3
Music, my adored. When is there never
music? My accordion puffs up
with drinkable melodies. I spill
her tunes into your listening ear,
one after the other: the squeeze-box
enters the dance of the plaintive gypsy
with its hard rhythms, lilts the back-
breaking labor song the worker croons
to earth, warbles romantic notes of
dissolving borders. You melt
like a woman beneath her lover's touch.
Music is happy and pitiless when
it sets fire to combustible souls. Even
the raspy bandoneon's voice is lyric.
4
Sacred. Sacred. Sacred. Sacred. (Speak
in a whisper.) We slip into this
space half cognizant. The land is very
large indeed: bones of the earth
worn down, though she is a living thing.
See how she exposes her grace? Antelopes
graze on the far plain—their high,
white tails—the red soil throbs
its slow heartbeat, and the blue sky
clears so smartly, perfectly, like
radiance. Are the ancestors near?
What can we know? We decide
to wander around this prairie, mistaken
for Utes, buy commodities in little towns.
5
Late afternoon we head west along the willow-banked
Malheur after the long curve of the Snake River plain.
(Above the falls where the Shoshone went to pray
we soaked our feet in cold water, and I observed
the arch of her brown foot.) Rabbitbrush and sage
along the highway, juniper on far hills and bluffs.
Sundown, and dusk falls over the wide basin of land.
In Burns we eat eggs in a cafe, take a room
in the Motel 6. In the dark, I can see
her black hair, black against the pillows. Its clean
scent makes me think of corn. At dawn, I hold her
and there are kisses. Then more kisses. Then more.
The day is cold; a north wind blew last night. But
the land is open. Rain falls in showers of light.
6
Her hand on my thigh, my shoulder,
in my hair. She leans over to kiss my cheek.
We look at each other, smile. For miles
we travel this way, nearly silent, point
with eyes or chins at the circling hawk, the king-
fisher on the snag above the swollen
creek. One night I weep in her arms
as she cries, "Oh, oh, oh!" because I have touched
her scars lightly: throat, belly, breasts.
In that communion of lovers, thick sobs
break from me as I think of my love
back home, all that I have done
and cannot say. This is the first time
I have left her so completely, so alone.
| Janice Gould | Love,Desire,Activities,Travels & Journeys,Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Gay, Lesbian, Queer,Nature,Landscapes & Pastorals,Social Commentaries,History & Politics | null |
The Holy Twins
|
Ours was a play-filled childhood; irrigation ditches ran deep
during the summers. We played in the water and dirt, then inscribed
ABCs and numbers onto the smooth ground. Our cat Polly died
of rabies; then all the pets had to be shot, some in the rib cage
as they thrashed in panic. There was a pink bruise
on my forehead from pressing against the wall. We couldn't figure
out how such a thing could happen. The dogs were steadfast figures
around the farm. They chased strange cars and sometimes invoked deep
panic among visitors and passersby. They had cuts and bruises
from scuffles with roaming packs. No tags were inscribed
with their random Navajo names. Snazzy was skinny; his rib cage
obvious through thin fur. He looked as if he might die
from hunger, but he ate like nobody's business. Who knew he would die
of rabies with the rest? The main thing was to figure
out how they contracted it, my parents said. We cried until our rib cages
ached; our eyes stayed swollen. This first loss was too deep
to even talk about. Decades later, I can finally describe
how that summer led us into a grief that felt like a bruise
that would last forever. But our neighbor suffered worse bruises:
their huge dog, named Dog, was the first to die
and was the cause of all this. Their home and fields are inscribed
in our memories as "the rabies place." Over time, they must have figured
it was too much to live down. Childhood losses run deep,
even though we are grandparents now. The memory is an invisible cage
of anguished sobs, gunshots, yelping howls, canine rib cages
exploding. Sometimes we reminisce and notice that the bruises
of grief have turned pale like smoothed-over scars. That initial deep
hurt was the start, we found, of how love could die
right before us, even as we watched: stunned figures
pleading for mercy, urgent prayers saying, "Let God's scribe
mark this down. We've paid our dues. Our hearts are inscribed
with loss after loss." For some reason, after everything, our rib cages
held up and continued to cradle tender hearts. They must have figured
that all the prayers and careful teachings would prevent bruises
that would weaken us. Our love for those homely animals was deep
and would figure in the knowledge that such bruises
aren't endless, and that our rib cages are not mere bones. One can die
from grief, so now we can describe loss and love as the Holy Twins.
| Luci Tapahonso | Living,Death,Sorrow & Grieving,Love,Heartache & Loss,Relationships,Pets | null |
A Blessing
|
For the graduates of the University of Arizona.
This morning we gather in gratitude for all aspects of sacredness:
the air, the warmth of fire, bodies of water, plants, the land,
and all animals and humankind.
We gather to honor our students who have achieved the extraordinary
accomplishment of earning doctoral or master's degrees.
We gather to honor their parents, grandparents, children,
family members, and friends who have traveled with them
on their path to success. They have traveled far distances to be here
this morning: we honor their devotion.
May we remember that holiness exists in the ordinary elements of our lives.
We are grateful for a homeland that has always thrived
on a glorious array of people and their diverse cultures, histories,
and beliefs. We acknowledge the generosity of the Tohono O'odham
in granting this land on which we learn, teach, celebrate
accomplishments, and sometimes mourn losses.
May we always cherish our ancestors as we prepare for the days ahead.
May we remember that we exist because of their prayers and their faith.
We are blessed with distinct and melodious tongues.
Our languages are treasures of stories, songs, ceremonies, and memories.
May each of us remember to share our stories with one another,
because it is only through stories that we live full lives.
May the words we speak go forth as bright beads
of comfort, joy, humor, and inspiration.
We have faith that the graduates will inspire others
to explore and follow their interests.
Today we reflect a rainbow of creation:
Some of us came from the east, where bright crystals of creativity reside.
They are the white streaks of early morning light when all is born again.
We understand that, in Tucson, the Rincon Mountains are our inspiration
for beginning each day. The Rincons are everlasting and always present.
Those who came from the south embody the strength of the blue
mountains that encircle us. The Santa Ritas instill in us
the vigorous spirit of youthful learning.
Others came from the west; they are imbued with the quiet, yellow glow of dusk.
They help us achieve our goals. Here in the middle of the valley, the ts'aa',
the basket of life, the Tucson Mountains teach us to value our families.
The ones from the north bring the deep, restorative powers of night's darkness;
their presence renews us. The Santa Catalina Mountains teach us that,
though the past may be fraught with sorrow, it was strengthened
by the prayers of our forebearers.
We witnessed the recent fires the mountains suffered,
and in their recovery we see ourselves on our own journeys.
We understand that we are surrounded by mountains, dziił,
and thus that we are made of strength, dziił, nihí níhídziił.
We are strong ourselves. We are surrounded by mountains
that help us negotiate our daily lives.
May we always recognize the multitude of gifts that surround us.
May our homes, schools, and communities be filled with the wisdom
and optimism that reflect a generous spirit.
We are grateful for all blessings, seen and unseen.
May we fulfill the lives envisioned for us at our birth. May we realize
that our actions affect all people and the earth. May we live in the way
of beauty and help others in need. May we always remember that
we were created as people who believe in one another. We are grateful,
Holy Ones, for the graduates, as they will strengthen our future.
All is beautiful again.
Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.
Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.
Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.
Hózhǫ́ nááhasdłíí’.
| Luci Tapahonso | Living,Coming of Age,Activities,School & Learning,Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Nature,Landscapes & Pastorals,Graduation | null |
Elegy for My Younger Sister
|
For Marilynn
Nihideezhí, it was a moist June afternoon when we buried you.
The Oak Springs Valley was dense with sage, cedar, and chamisa;
and gray, green, and brown shrubs cradled the small cemetery.
The sky was huge overhead.
Your son said later, "Did you see the sky? It was purple.
I knew it would rain," he said.
The dark Carrizo Mountains were so clear.
There were so many people, Sister.
Many of your friends whom we didn't know,
and your former schoolmates whom we remembered as children,
and Sister, we met many relatives for the first time.
We cried, not wanting to leave you in that serene place.
We hesitated, though our father, his parents, and their parents
are buried there. Our older sisters thought ahead to bring flowers for them.
They huddled quietly over their graves a few feet away.
Shideezhí, remember how red the sand is?
The men—your sons, our nephews, grandsons, and various in-laws—
took turns filling your grave. Their necks and arms were streaked
with dusty sweat. They kept their heads down;
their faces were damp and eyes, swollen.
We had to get it all out; we cried
and held each other. My granddaughters hovered near me
as if I might faint or fall unexpectedly.
Did you see, Sister, the way the grandchildren fed and served everyone?
They guided the grandparents and the elderly to their chairs.
Once seated, they served plates filled with mutton ribs,
potato salad, corn, thick slabs of oven bread, crispy fry bread,
and Jell-O salad. They placed the salt and pepper—that enduring couple—
before us and implored us to eat. The two delights we relished were good—
hot, strong coffee and cold, crisp diet pop.
We ate for you; we consumed your meal, Shideezhí.
We ate to honor the times you cooked for us—
those tasty dishes, scrumptious pastries combined with laughter,
silly childhood memories, and always teasing jokes.
Sister, I didn't know how we would make it;
it is still too much to think of you not being here.
| Luci Tapahonso | Living,Death,Sorrow & Grieving,Relationships,Family & Ancestors | null |
On a Day, In the World
|
We had a grief
we didn't understand while
standing at the edge of
some low scrub hills as if
humans were extra
or already gone;—
what had been in us before?
a life that asks for mostly
wanting freedom to get things done
in order to feel less
helpless about the end
of things alone—;
when i think of time on earth,
i feel the angle of gray minutes
entering the medium days
yet not "built-up":: our
work together: groups, the willing
burden of an old belief,
& beyond them love, as of
a great life going like fast
creatures peeling back marked
seeds, gold-brown integuments
the color time
will be when we are gone—
| Brenda Hillman | Living,Death,Sorrow & Grieving,Time & Brevity | null |
Angrily Standing Outside in the Wind
|
—kept losing self control
but how could one lose the self
after reading so much literary theory?
The shorter "i" stood under the cork trees,
the taller "I" remained rather passive;
the brendas were angry at the greed, angry
that the trees would die, had lost interest
in the posturing of the privileged,
the gaps between can't & won't...
Stood outside the gate of permissible
sound & the wind came soughing
through the doubt debris(soughing comes from swāgh—to resound...
echo actually comes from this also—)
we thought of old Hegel across
the sea—the Weltgeist—& clouds
went by like the bones of a Kleenex...
it's too late for countries
but it's not too late for trees...
& the wind kept soughing with its sound sash, wind with
its sound sash, increasing
bold wind with its sound sash,
increasing bold—
| Brenda Hillman | Nature,Trees & Flowers,Social Commentaries,History & Politics | null |
Extra Hidden Life, among the Days
|
Sometimes , when i'm
very tired , i think
of extremophiles , chemolithoautotrophs
& others with power for changing
not-life into lives , of those that eat rock
& fire in volcanoes , before the death
of the world but after the death of a human
, of their taste
for ammonia or iron , sulfur & carbon
, somehow
enough of it to go on ... As workers
taste revolt , they grow
at the vents of oceans , turning mute vapor
into respiration , changing unhinged
matter to hinges , near the rims of sea
trenches or the caves ... Our friend wrote
of writers living in gray hiding,
, of those who love glass
& early freedom , steep sand
& late freedom , sex among gentle
or bitter grasses , those with a taste for
blue or belligerence , obscure lives, she
called them , the writers
of radical mind …
The living prefer life , mostly they do
, they are ravenous
, making shapes in groups
as the dying grow one thought
until the end , wanting more
specifics , desert or delay
until the i drops away into i am not here , the mineral other
pumps & vast vapors , ridges & shadows beyond
the single life it had not thought of—
| Brenda Hillman | Living,Death,Time & Brevity,Nature,Animals,Seas, Rivers, & Streams | null |
Start This Record Over
|
Perhaps is a new and sudden way of being.
Like satisfaction not yet begun or some other kind
of kindness:
a more gentle one?
Night makes us all into the middle
of something until we aren't
anything anymore. The sky
isn't any color here. It's OK
because consolation is color enough
for your cheeks, wind bitten and glorified
by the light of the wine in this glass draining
toward a better time, a better space. I invented
a notion of hell, and you invented a notion of hello.
Amazing similarities and bizarrely coincidental snow
Like a twig falling from an oak's tallest point,
I keep wondering when forgiveness
found its way into this world
in a time before bargaining and beckoning.
It's quiet again and now the sky is a tangled
mess of rags seeking out the bored and unwilling.
I'd like to make a map not of the land
but of the path I took to arrive in this place,
a map with no idealized purpose,
a map of a thousand airless pines.
| Adam Clay | Living,The Mind,Nature,Fall,Weather,Arts & Sciences,Language & Linguistics | null |
Flu, 1962
|
Shadows lengthened while we sat stuck in traffic just beyond San Rafael. Headlights had begun to flare in the cool dusk. The hum of the car's engine lulled me, and I put my forehead against the glass, looking out over a darkening landscape. We were headed to the Bishop's Ranch, a weekend retreat for Episcopal Young Churchmen in hilly country that would someday produce superlative wines with garnet hues that stain the inside of a glass. I was queasy from the lurching of the car, the stops and starts, the smell of exhaust. Though trembling with cold, I was too shy to ask the lady, the mother of one of the other girls, to turn on the heater. I imagined pale pink blossoms on the Japanese plum, apple trees laden with white flowers, and north of Sebastapol the vibrant yellow of daffodils on slender, pleated stems. That night I slept in a single bunk made up with thin sheets and blankets.
A warm sun the next day restored me, but in the evening, seated by the fire that crackled in the fireplace of the big lodge, I felt flushed. Our recently ordained curate (we were not to know he was gay till some years later) had asked me to bring my guitar, and now he wanted me to sing about the girl who decides to sleep next to her mother her whole life long instead of falling for an unfaithful suitor. I sang; we all sang together. Young Father W. had a wonderful tenor voice. His smile reassured me, but now I was tired and, earlier than the others, I decided to return to the dorm.
In that clear March night, the sky gleamed like black ink and stars blazed, bright and alive. Walking downhill, guitar in hand, I suddenly stumbled with dizziness, and the slope swam before me. “Hold on, hold on,” I told myself as I nearly fell onto the dew-slick lawn. For a moment I could sense myself floating away from my body. Back in the dorm, I crawled into bed and lay shuddering with cold, bones aching. The room seemed to spin. I wanted to be home, but the thought of facing my mother filled me with terrible dismay. I knew the blue failure notice mailed by the school would have arrived.
Sure enough, it lay open on the dining table when I got home the following afternoon. A Sunday fog, hardly a mist, had blown in from the bay and was gathering in the eucalyptus across the ravine. The house was steamy. A basket of clean laundry occupied a chair atop a stack of San Francisco Chronicles. Mom sat at the table sewing, but I knew she was scowling. I thought it wise to look industrious, so I began to fold towels and pillowcases. “What I want to know,” began my mother, “is whether you have any ambition? Obviously, you will never get to college. What do you expect to do with your life?” She paused, and I shrugged. “Go ahead and shrug. Do you think your girlfriend is going to take care of you? That won’t last long. And why is it you only fall in love with girls? Well, I suppose you want to be a boy.” What an unutterable failure I am. I retreated, burned by her ferocious, upright anger. “Oh, yes, I’m sure you’re sick! But you will go to school tomorrow!”
That night, wracked again with cold, unable to stop my trembling, I sought my parents’ bed, stood moaning till Mom woke and let me under the covers, where she tried to warm me with her body. Weeks later we learned that one of my classmates, a robust girl who shot baskets as well as any boy, had succumbed to the illness and died. That night, my mother placed her hand on my forehead–her smooth palm, her touch, gentle–and said to my barely awake dad, “Our daughter has a raging fever.” Like a miracle, I was still her child. Comforted, I slept.
| Janice Gould | Living,Health & Illness,Love,Realistic & Complicated,Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Social Commentaries,Gender & Sexuality | null |
Our Eternal Sounds
|
What might all songs lean into?
You scramble eggs one moment,
and in the next minute
you're eating them
with dry toast and black coffee
in silence.
On a day like any day,
your voice is not your own:
the grass clippings disrupt
a robin too large to fly
from worm to worm.
We don't know why we speak,
but yet our voices
persist, even when void of substance—
like a dream you'd like
to recall throughout the day,
but you don't or you can't
and after a week, it's gone forever.
Of course our voices
evolve years before our bodies—
our vocal cords vibrate like a heartbeat,
senselessly. No explanation
needed.
Eventually all languages converge.
Each thought falls
into all others. And what thought
resists being built by words?
Perhaps fear placed us
here in this room together:
a fear of fire at one point turned
into a fear of God. After that, a fear
of godlessness, a room
where a word before
another word and another
word after the first
was all we had, all we could
imagine. Somehow
an image means
more than the object itself
but not because
it's made of words. Most likely
it's because the act of creation
sets the mind down like a bird
in a field
where the speed of the invasive cannot exist.
| Adam Clay | Religion,The Spiritual,Arts & Sciences,Language & Linguistics | null |
For the First Fog of October
|
If an idea exists but is never found,
then the stained-glass windows
will reflect nothing back to the ear.
Most days filter through the mind,
waiting not for movement
but for a road to be built,
brick by brick, word by word,
weariness replaced with joy,
but what is joy without the years
and the way they open constantly,
two or three hearts pumping a volume of blood
meant for just one?
Our disbelief in the ordinary
emerges from the way we color routine:
leaves pile up depending on the wind,
but why pause to notice?
Eventually the seasons embrace
what our words will not, the illuminated day
just one of a thousand others,
and the names we give back to the world
mean ultimately little against the way
the sun pleads sense
from the smallest cradle of dew.
| Adam Clay | Living,The Mind,Nature,Fall,Weather,Arts & Sciences,Language & Linguistics | null |
Lament for Juan Gelman's Moustache
|
All at once that stubborn dog of a heart
stopped barking at Lady Poetry, jumped
over the wall where the sacred crows of
Kashmir dwelt and said: I've come into
this world to stay. It can't be, protested
the daffy nurses of Pickapoon Hospital.
It can't be, the guardians of the public
order responded in chorus. All at once
that heart stopped leaping, not in his
beloved Buenos Aires where he'd mis-
placed his violin for good or in Ukraine
where José sawed timber and memorized
train schedules. That stubborn dog of a
heart kept singing in the face of turbulence,
never knowing whether the Lady would
arrive. He put bars on his verses because
of issues with his lungs and thanked the
little birds that ate from his hand. He fed
the crows as well—"breadcrumbing," he'd
call it—ringing a bell while quoting
mystics in their native tongues. This is
why I've come, he'd say, but all at once
that stubborn dog of a heart stopped
speaking and drew a giant moustache
high up in the spheres. You can see it
if you dare listen to their music.
| Eduardo Chirinos | Nature,Stars, Planets, Heavens,Arts & Sciences,Poetry & Poets | null |
A Brief Treatise on Etymology
|
If someone tells you that your poem is nostalgic,
take it as a compliment. There's no greater
praise. In Greek, nostos means "return" andalgia "pain." What's a poem without the return
of pain? If they tell you that your poem is
melancholic, take that as a compliment, too. In
Greek, melan means "black" and khole "bile."
What's a poem without the most pernicious disorder
of the body and soul? Pain and illness. If your
poem is nostalgic and melancholic, see a doctor.
| Eduardo Chirinos | Arts & Sciences,Poetry & Poets | null |
Le petit bout de rien
|
There's no cause for vanity and none for
pride: it's just a matter of assembling
words in lines, then dividing them up (or
letting them divide themselves), hoping
they sound good or bad. (What's important
is that they sound like something.) It's all
a question of staying alert so that red doesn't
bleed into orange or orange into yellow or
yellow into silence. There's no cause for
rejecting silence and none for accepting it,
either. We should speak when there's noth-
ing to say and be quiet when others talk.
That's the poet's business, so get used to it.
There's nothing glorious about it. The future
doesn't count for anything and the past just
laughs at us. There's no cause for writing
this poem and none for deleting it, either.
| Eduardo Chirinos | Arts & Sciences,Poetry & Poets | null |
Interstitial 0.2
|
Empty air has its own mechanism, me dijo.
Its gears accord to whim.
We go out only when we have to, me dijo.
We have hidden things for breathing.
You can't understand it prepped that way, me dijo.
It always changes, but never readily enough.
Some things we say more of and then again, me dijo.
They always mean less once pre-written.
The context connections are far too frail, me dijo.
To make them you need to pixel-point time.
There are no click-in-n-out pictures, me dijo.
You facet your eyes to see them multiply.
There are hands held out everywhere, me dijo.
We have to be careful what to step around/in.
Sometimes we come this close too late, me dijo.
Then we have to wait for inertia to embrace us.
We are the hungry, hungry: so ravenous, me dijo.
We will tear at your insides and lick them clean.
| elena minor | Living,The Mind,Arts & Sciences,Language & Linguistics | null |
Untitled, With Rosy Inflection
|
I would have come.
When you called. But.
I had the most beautiful pale pink rose.
Its healthy stem was clenched between my teeth. And.
Its thorns bit sharply into my tender wet flesh. So.
I couldn't answer you. Still.
My lips moved at you silently.
They offered words you never heard.
They screamed inside my crazed brain. Only.
It could do nothing for you.
In time the petals wilted.
They blew away. And.
They became compost in someone else's garden.
The tough, fibrous stem withered.
I bit down hard to snap its grip on me. Then.
My teeth fell out.
Its thorns had burrowed into my cheeks.
They had implanted themselves permanently.
They were suckling on my softest tissues. And.
Not long after they sprouted tiny shoots.
They coiled their way down.
I still held the memory of your call. And.
The long stemmed beauty lodged next to it.
They cleaved unto the long roots curling down my neck.
My body held tight and listened. Hard.
| elena minor | Love,Desire,Nature,Trees & Flowers,Arts & Sciences,Language & Linguistics | null |
What is Liberty?
|
The plump lemon,
the spoon's metal
cuts off the shadow,
the bursting overflow of pleasure,
the dark night of the shriek,
a nameless fire in the street,
some blackened breadcrumbs...
| Olivia Maciel | Activities,Eating & Drinking,Social Commentaries,History & Politics | null |
Night Moths, Vapor
|
Did you know there were hundreds of little
night moths
crowded against the window pane
to catch a glimmer of light?
It was the scent of a strange perfume,
from fallen cocoons, sticky sincerity
that made them flee.
In this world of protected ruins,
in this circular world
where people tell
and re-tell the same stories,
in this world where people forgot
that the dyke
wouldn't be massive enough to hold back
the sea swell;
in this world where each and every one
would flee in panic in the end;
even the old lady sold
spun silver birds
while she whispered...
The tiny, translucent and elegant
night moths
like freshly picked pumpkin seeds
crowded in the corner of that half-open window
clinging to the cold glass,
light eager,
while the vapor filled the room
reaching the nostrils
of colleagues
who didn't recognize each other
but intertwining their fingers,
waited for someone else's words
to atone
and explain
and bestow
meaning to words.
| Olivia Maciel | Nature,Animals,Arts & Sciences,Language & Linguistics | null |
Three Women
|
Three women survive.
One hides in a bedroom of a house,
sharpening blades in the bathroom, her night.
Another disinfects the cloth her older sister contaminates.
The third, more tender and insecure, proud and serene,
takes her first steps,
surrounded by palm trees, lemon trees, pomegranate trees,
bougainvilleas, birds of paradise...
| Olivia Maciel | Social Commentaries,Gender & Sexuality,War & Conflict | null |
Pronouns
|
He plays a train.
She plays a whistle.
They move away.
He plays a rope.
She plays a tree.
They swing.
He plays a dream.
She plays a feather.
They fly.
He plays a general.
She plays people.
They declare war.
| Dunya Mikhail | Arts & Sciences,Language & Linguistics,Social Commentaries,War & Conflict | null |
The Artist Child
|
—I want to draw the sky.
—Draw it, my darling.
—I have.
—And why do you spread
the colors this way?
—Because the sky
has no edges.
. . .
—I want to draw the earth.
—Draw it, my darling.
—I have.
—And who is this?
—She is my friend.
—And where is the earth?
—In her handbag.
. . .
—I want to draw the moon.
—Draw it, my darling.
—I can't.
—Why?
—The waves shatter it
continuously.
. . .
—I want to draw paradise.
—Draw it, my darling.
—I have.
—But I don't see any colors.
—It is colorless.
. . .
—I want to draw the war.
—Draw it, my darling.
—I have.
—And what is this circle?
—Guess.
—A drop of blood?
—No.
—A bullet?
—No.
—Then, what?
—The button
that turns off the lights.
| Dunya Mikhail | Living,Youth,Arts & Sciences,Painting & Sculpture,Social Commentaries,War & Conflict | null |
I Was In A Hurry
|
Yesterday I lost a country.
I was in a hurry,
and didn't notice when it fell from me
like a broken branch from a forgetful tree.
Please, if anyone passes by
and stumbles across it,
perhaps in a suitcase
open to the sky,
or engraved on a rock
like a gaping wound,
or wrapped
in the blankets of emigrants,
or canceled
like a losing lottery ticket,
or helplessly forgotten
in Purgatory,
or rushing forward without a goal
like the questions of children,
or rising with the smoke of war,
or rolling in a helmet on the sand,
or stolen in Ali Baba's jar,
or disguised in the uniform of a policeman
who stirred up the prisoners
and fled,
or squatting in the mind of a woman
who tries to smile,
or scattered
like the dreams
of new immigrants in America.
If anyone stumbles across it,
return it to me, please.
Please return it, sir.
Please return it, madam.
It is my country. . .
I was in a hurry
when I lost it yesterday.
| Dunya Mikhail | Activities,Travels & Journeys,Social Commentaries,History & Politics,War & Conflict | null |
What I Did With Your Ashes
|
Shook the box like a maraca.
Stood around like a dope in my punch-colored dress, clutching your box
to my chest.
Opened your plastic receptacle, the size of a jack-in-the-box. But instead
of gaudy stripes, your box is sober-suit blue, hymnal blue.
Tasted them. You've gained a statue's flavor, like licking the pyramids, or
kissing sandstone shoulders. I mean boulders.
Remarked to your box: "REINCARNATION comes from roots meaning 'to
be made flesh again.'"
Stowed your box under my bed for a week to seed dreams in which you
advise me. (This didn't work.)
Opened the Babylonian Talmud at random. Read aloud to your gritty,
gray-white powder: "There are three keys which the Holy One, blessed be
He, has not entrusted into the hands of any messenger. These are: the key
of rain, the key of birth, and the key of the resurrection of the dead."
Worked myself up to watery eyes. Any intensity evaporated the instant I
stopped reading.
Tried to intuit your format, sift it from tides of void. Does shape play a
role? My watch ticked in an exaggerated way. Closed my eyes, sent forth
mental tendrils seeking the nothing of you. They curled back on them-
selves, weaving around the wing chair, a dog's leg, a lamp stand, eventu-
ally heading back toward the nothing of me.
| Amy Gerstler | Living,Death,Sorrow & Grieving,The Body | null |
The Suicide's Wife
|
lives on an island
of last-ditch attempts
and ancient consolations
after the shipwreck
she swam ashore near naked
hands scraped raw on coral
bra and panties soaked through
sand in her teeth
lapped by aftermath
lying exhausted
slowly approaching
the condition of music
he loved her stubborn luster
sure they argued sometimes
the word "argue" from Latin
meaning to make clear
while she sat quietly
in the wing chair
her eyes closed
police ransacked his desk
the note turned up in his pocket
with the letter for his sister
a baseball ticket stub
receipts for two "taco platters"he whose soul was bound up with mine
and part of a bookmark
six weeks later she looks great
thin and translucent
a statue of justice sans blindfold
she wears beautiful blouses now
peach, gold, seedling green
her complexion
has never been better
lushness nips at the heels
of destruction
tonight's lurid sunset's
a cocktail of too many boozes
she'd like to switch it off
via remote control
but there's no antidote
for celestial events
a frantic bat takes a wrong turn
from the attic veers
into her living
room, bounces off walls
a sick flut-thud each time it hits
the suicide's wife
pulls out her roasting pan
climbs the kitchen counter
teeters and grabs
for twenty minutes
at last claps on the lid
walks her prize outside
releases the creature
into the trees
where the lawn peters out
where the idea that at death
something is liberated
can flap blackly away.
| Amy Gerstler | Living,Death,Marriage & Companionship,Sorrow & Grieving,Love,Heartache & Loss | null |
Womanishness
|
The dissonance of women. The shrill frilly silly
drippy prissy pouty fuss of us. And all the while
science was the music of our minds. Our sexual
identities glittery as tinsel, we fretted about god's
difficulties with intimacy, waiting for day's luster
to fade so we could slip into something less
venerated. Like sea anemones at high tide
our minds snatched at whatever rushed by.
Hush, hush, my love. These things happened
a long time ago. You needn't be afraid of them, now.
| Amy Gerstler | Social Commentaries,Gender & Sexuality | null |
Sonnet for 1950
|
All the kids came rumbling down the wood tenement
Shaky stairs, sneakers slapping against the worn
Tin tread edges, downhall came Pepo, Chino, Cojo,
Curly bursting from the door like shells exploding
Singing "I'm a Rican Doodle Dandy" and "What shall
We be today, Doctors or Junkies, Soldiers or Winos?"
Pepo put a milk crate on a Spanish Harlem johnny pump
And drops opened like paratroopers carrying war news.
Then Urban Renewal attacked the pump, cleared the slums
Blamed Puerto Rico and dispersed the Spies, blasting
Them into the Army or Anywhere Avenue in the Bronx.
And nobody, but nobody, came back from that summer.
Just as Korea was death in service to the warring Nation
The Bronx was death in service to the negligent Nation
| Jack Agüeros | Living,Youth,Social Commentaries,History & Politics,Race & Ethnicity,War & Conflict | null |
Sonnet: The History of Puerto Rico
|
Puerto Rico was created when the pumpkin on top of
The turtle burst and its teeming waters poured out
With all mankind and beastkind riding on the waves
Until the water drained leaving a tropical paradise.
Puerto Rico was stumbled on by lost vampires bearing
Crucifix in one hand, arquebus in the other, sucking
The veins of land and men, tossing the pulp into the
Compost heap which they used as the foundation for
Their fortifications and other vainglorious temples.
Puerto Rico was arrested just as it broke out of the
Spanish jail and, renamed a trusty, it was put in an
American cell. When the prisoner hollered, "Yankee, Go
Home," Puerto Rico was referred to the United Nations.
Puerto Rico, to get to paradise now, you have to ride blood.
| Jack Agüeros | Social Commentaries,History & Politics,War & Conflict | null |
Sonnet for Angelo Monterosa
|
Monterosa, your body is dead on Avenue A. Angelo,
They found you eyes open staring at the beer
Soaked floorboards. Did you want that? Did
You mind them filling your back with buckshot?
Angelo, I am angry with them all, and you Monterosa
Killed and killers, killing and dealing dope. No good
You were, no good they are. Still, I wish their fate
To be bodies stacking under the same blue smoke.
Monterosa, there is blood on your song, blood on the juke
Box. The cowbell, the conga, and your corpse form the trio
That is the rhinestone pin of my failure, your failure,
Our failure, who loved, but did not rescue Angelo.
Angel, hold him, while I bury him in these clean words,
And pray to see the resurrection of the rose mountain.
| Jack Agüeros | Living,Death,Sorrow & Grieving,Social Commentaries,Crime & Punishment | null |
Chance
|
We feel the volt inside our veins,
inside the vines, inside the rain,
and through the capillaries of
a tree. We feel the pulse above
in storms, vibrato of thunder,
the whispering rhythms of a river,
magnetic currents in the earth,
the alternating flow of breath,
the push of tides, reversing air
from caves, dilating hum and dance
of bees, the chant of auctioneer.
All oscillate together, or
they seem to, in this play of chance,
beneath the stars' indifference.
| Robert Morgan | Mythology & Folklore,Ghosts & the Supernatural | null |
Locusts
|
What a surprise it is to hear
that locusts come the thirteenth year
and not the seventeenth as told
for ages and enshrined in old
folklore and rhymes and family lies.
The species similar otherwise:
cicadas books call periodic,
found here in our southern district.
They grow from eggs pressed into twigs.
The nymphs that hatch then start to dig
at least ten inches into soil,
and live by sucking juicy oil
from roots and stems, sweet sap
that nourishes through the giant nap,
and then the lucky thirteenth year
they grow a polished armor
and crawl into the summer air
and, louder than a Mahler choir,
fill meadow, hedge, and orchard grove
with necessary calls for love,
then leave their eggs to fortune's whim
with Philip Glass-like requiem.
| Robert Morgan | Nature,Animals | null |
From the Pentagon
|
He brings me chocolate from the Pentagon,
dark chocolates shaped like tanks and fighter jets,
milk chocolate tomahawks, a bonbon
like a kirsch grenade, mint chocolate bayonets.
He brings me chocolate ships, a submarine
descending in a chocolate sea, a drone
unmanned and filled with hazelnut praline.
He brings me cocoa powder, like chocolate blown
to bits. Or chocolate squares of pepper heat.
Or if perhaps we've fought, he brings a box
of truffles home, missiles of semisweet
dissolving on the tongue. He brings me Glocks
and chocolate mines, a tiny transport plane,
a bomb that looks delicious in its cellophane.
| Jehanne Dubrow | null | null |
Dreaming of Lesbos
|
I can enter the morning with traces of an eternal dream: to live
on a planet of women. we sing in the fertile forest, caress on
lavender hills, bathe beneath cascades of clear waters. and just
like that, nude and wet, we mount each other’s bodies. our
desire is a whale that searches for calm in the depth of the sea.
I smell sex in my hair when I awaken.
the dream perfumes all of my days. I go to the post office and
look for stamps with etchings of flowers and fruits so that I can
send letters to the women who loved me in my sleep.
we are in a world that is not ours. what do we do with the
dreams that touch our consciousness in the nude each night?
our planet of women is nothing more than a dream. who knows
how many of us bathe in the woods or which ones of us have
wings that let us fly with our flesh? it’s not for anyone to know.
fortunately, we always dream paradise, we make it ours. there,
we find each other and live in our collective memory.
and so, I smell sex in my hair when I awaken.
| Tatiana de la Tierra | Love,Desire,Relationships,Gay, Lesbian, Queer,Social Commentaries,Gender & Sexuality | null |
A Litany for Survival
|
For those of us who live at the shoreline
standing upon the constant edges of decision
crucial and alone
for those of us who cannot indulge
the passing dreams of choice
who love in doorways coming and going
in the hours between dawns
looking inward and outward
at once before and after
seeking a now that can breed
futures
like bread in our children’s mouths
so their dreams will not reflect
the death of ours;
For those of us
who were imprinted with fear
like a faint line in the center of our foreheads
learning to be afraid with our mother’s milk
for by this weapon
this illusion of some safety to be found
the heavy-footed hoped to silence us
For all of us
this instant and this triumph
We were never meant to survive.
And when the sun rises we are afraid
it might not remain
when the sun sets we are afraid
it might not rise in the morning
when our stomachs are full we are afraid
of indigestion
when our stomachs are empty we are afraid
we may never eat again
when we are loved we are afraid
love will vanish
when we are alone we are afraid
love will never return
and when we speak we are afraid
our words will not be heard
nor welcomed
but when we are silent
we are still afraid
So it is better to speak
remembering
we were never meant to survive.
| Audre Lorde | Living,Life Choices | null |
Deleted Scene: Last Day
|
I hear a book being written, my sister says, or is it a poem?
Her eyes are closed.
It has a lot of semicolons.
One sentence or two? she wants to know. Comma? Period.
Well, I say, semicolons join and separate.
Grammar, my sister says, is very interesting.
| Donna Masini | Living,Death,Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Arts & Sciences,Language & Linguistics | null |
What Didn't Work
|
Chemo Tarceva prayer
meditation affirmation Xanax
Avastin Nebulizer Zofran
Zoloft Vicodin notebooks
nurses oxygen tank pastina
magical thinking PET scans movies
therapy phone calls candles
acceptance denial meatloaf
doctors rosary beads sleep
Irish soda bread internet incantations
visitors sesame oil pain patches
CAT scans massage shopping
thin sliced Italian bread with melted mozzarella
St. Anthony oil Lourdes water St. Peregrine
tea spring water get well cards
relaxation tapes recliner cooking shows
cotton T-shirts lawn furniture a new baby
giving up Paris giving up Miami charts
bargaining not bargaining connections
counting with her breathing for her willPride and Prejudice Downton Abbey prayer
watching TV not watching TV prayer
prayer prayer prayer
lists
| Donna Masini | Living,Death,Health & Illness,Sorrow & Grieving | null |
Watching the Six-Part Pride and Prejudice, Mid-Chemo, with My Sister
|
We start stopping when she’s afraid
something bad will happen. Don’t worry,
I say, all will be well.
How could she know? She’s never
read it, never heard of Elizabeth
and Jane, never wanted Mr. Darcy. Like me
she needs to know how things will end.
I know Elizabeth will be fine. As I knew,
last week, my sister weeping, that Elinor–
sobbing, begging–wouldn’t lose Marianne.
It’s Jane Austen! My sister doesn’t know that
in Austen nothing really bad happens. I leave her
on the couch with the last hours.
How much my sister will have to endure,
alone, with this new drama.
Later her message. The last one
in which she will sound like herself.Hi, it’s me. The movie was unbelievable.
Unbelievable.
| Donna Masini | Living,Death,Health & Illness,Relationships,Family & Ancestors,Arts & Sciences,Photography & Film | null |
The Lights Go Down at the Angelika
|
and you press into the dark, imagine
the stranger two rows back, that fragile
chance you’ll forget in the second trailer.
Now it’s quiet, still
this burden of being watcher and screen
and what floats across it–light pouring out
its time and necklines and train wrecks.
What a relief to yield to the EXIT
sign red “I” blinking like a candle.
Soon the enormous figures moving
across rooms, the emphatic narrative
arcs. (There’s the thrum of the subway,
its engine of extras.) Here now
the beginning of trivia tests. Warning puppets
with brown-bag faces and fringy hair.
You’re almost here. But what you want
is the after. How yourself you are now
walking into the night, full moon over Houston Street,
at the bright fruit stand touching the yellow
mums. Here you are: Woman with Cilantro
listening to the rattle of the wrap,
the paper sound paper makes after you
have heard movie paper. Apples are more apples.
Paper more paper. Cilantro, its sweaty green self.
| Donna Masini | Living,The Mind,Arts & Sciences,Photography & Film | null |
Listen to the Deer Tick Sing
|
I wait for you to come
to brush your shoe against
the blade of grass I'm sitting on
touch me with your hand
as you reach for one last
violet to take home
or pick up a worm to place
gracefully in the garden
even better if you lie
on a hillside to watch the sunset
or breathe in stars
I will feel your warmth, bury
my head next to that freckle
on your calf, that hair
on your forearm, or just behind
the lobe of your left ear
I promise not to take too much
blood into my swelling body
only what I think I need
and I will never
let you know I am here
though I will love you
deeply
| James K. Zimmerman | null | null |
My Cousin, Milton
|
My cousin, Milton, worked for a cable company.
The boy I knew when we were children
had fists that were often clenched, his face set like
an old man whose life had been so hard,
it hardened him. But the man's hands opened to let
more of the world in. He sent the funniest
cards to family and friends at Christmas, laid down
cable so others could connect. Yet, he lived
alone, kept to himself much of the time, so when
his sister found his body, he'd been gone
a good while. He died young at fifty-seven, without
fuss or bother. No sitting by the bedside
or feeding him soup. He just laid himself down like
a trunk line and let the signal pass through.
| Terri Kirby Erickson | null | null |
No Encore
|
I'm just an assistant with the Vanishing Act.
My spangled wand points out the disappeared.
It's only a poor thing made of words, and lacks
the illusive power to light the darkling year.
Not prophecy, not elegy, but fact:
the thing that's gone is never coming back.
Late or soon a guttering silence will ring down
a curtain like woven smoke on thickening air.
The audience will strain to see what's there,
the old magician nowhere to be found.
For now, I wear a costume and dance obliquely.
The applause you hear is not for me, its rabid sound
like angry rain—as one by one the known forms cease to be:
childhood, the farm, the river, forested ground;
the tiger and the condor, the whale, the honeybee;
the village, the book, the lantern. Then you. Then me.
| Betty Adcock | null | null |
Cat
|
I prefer
warm fur,
a perfect fire
to lie beside,
a cozy lap
where I can nap,
an empty chair
when she's not there.
I want heat
on my feet
on my nose
on my hide.
No cat I remember
dislikes December
inside.
| Marilyn Singer | Relationships,Pets,Nature,Winter | null |
April Is a Dog's Dream
|
april is a dog's dream
the soft grass is growing
the sweet breeze is blowing
the air all full of singing feels just right
so no excuses now
we're going to the park
to chase and charge and chew
and I will make you see
what spring is all about
| Marilyn Singer | Relationships,Pets,Nature,Spring | null |
Poem by Poem
|
—in memory of
Cynthia Hurd, Susie Jackson, Ethel Lance,
Rev. Depayne Middleton-Doctor,
Hon. Rev. Clementa Pinckney,
Tywanza Sanders, Rev. Daniel Simmons Sr.,
Rev. Sharonda Singleton, Myra Thompson
Shot and killed while at church.
Charleston, SC (6-18-2015), RIP
poem by poem
we can end the violence
every day after
every other day
9 killed in Charleston, South Carolina
they are not 9 they
are each one
alive
we do not know
you have a poem to offer
it is made of action—you must
search for it run
outside and give your life to it
when you find it walk it
back—blow upon it
carry it taller than the city where you live
when the blood comes down
do not ask if
it is your blood it
is made of
9 drops
honor them
wash them stop them
from falling
| Juan Felipe Herrera | Living,Death,Sorrow & Grieving,Social Commentaries,Crime & Punishment,History & Politics | null |
A Poem for Pulse
|
Last night, I went to a gay bar
with a man I love a little.
After dinner, we had a drink.
We sat in the far-back of the big backyard
and he asked, What will we do when this place closes?
I don't think it's going anywhere any time soon, I said,
though the crowd was slow for a Saturday,
and he said—Yes, but one day. Where will we go?
He walked me the half-block home
and kissed me goodnight on my stoop—
properly: not too quick, close enough
our stomachs pressed together
in a second sort of kiss.
I live next to a bar that's not a gay bar
—we just call those bars, I guess—
and because it is popular
and because I live on a busy street,
there are always people who aren't queer people
on the sidewalk on weekend nights.
Just people, I guess.
They were there last night.
As I kissed this man I was aware of them watching
and of myself wondering whether or not they were just.
But I didn't let myself feel scared, I kissed him
exactly as I wanted to, as I would have without an audience,
because I decided many years ago to refuse this fear—
an act of resistance. I left
the idea of hate out on the stoop and went inside,
to sleep, early and drunk and happy.
While I slept, a man went to a gay club
with two guns and killed forty-nine people.
Today in an interview, his father said he had been disturbed
recently by the sight of two men kissing.
What a strange power to be cursed with:
for the proof of men's desire to move men to violence.
What's a single kiss? I've had kisses
no one has ever known about, so many
kisses without consequence—
but there is a place you can't outrun,
whoever you are.
There will be a time when.
It might be a bullet, suddenly.
The sound of it. Many.
One man, two guns, fifty dead—
Two men kissing. Last night
I can't get away from, imagining it, them,
the people there to dance and laugh and drink,
who didn't believe they'd die, who couldn't have.
How else can you have a good time?
How else can you live?
There must have been two men kissing
for the first time last night, and for the last,
and two women, too, and two people who were neither.
Brown people, which cannot be a coincidence in this country
which is a racist country, which is gun country.
Today I'm thinking of the Bernie Boston photograph
Flower Power, of the Vietnam protestor placing carnations
in the rifles of the National Guard,
and wishing for a gesture as queer and simple.
The protester in the photo was gay, you know,
he went by Hibiscus and died of AIDS,
which I am also thinking about today because
(the government's response to) AIDS was a hate crime.
Now we have a president who names us,
the big and imperfectly lettered us, and here we are
getting kissed on stoops, getting married some of us,
some of us getting killed.
We must love one another whether or not we die.
Love can't block a bullet
but neither can it be shot down,
and love is, for the most part, what makes us—
in Orlando and in Brooklyn and in Kabul.
We will be everywhere, always;
there's nowhere else for us, or you, to go.
Anywhere you run in this world, love will be there to greet you.
Around any corner, there might be two men. Kissing.
| Jameson Fitzpatrick | Living,Death,Love,Desire,Romantic Love,Relationships,Gay, Lesbian, Queer,Social Commentaries,Crime & Punishment,Gender & Sexuality,History & Politics | null |
Before
|
Before clock hands showed the time
time ceased, and looking glasses
were veiled as if they still held
familiar faces, in those
last moments when breath shallowed
like a wellspring running dry,
God-words quickened, only then
the dying left death-beds borne
on the arms of the gathered,
lowered to the floor so they
might press close, as though a door
through which to listen and know
the earth's old secrets before
it opened, and they entered.
| Ron Rash | Living,Death,Time & Brevity | null |