I know the wavelength of soft grasses in
eastern winds. Fireflies blink in the
balloon of a sundress, and when I set
the table and forget the napkin, you
capture and pin me as a fraud.
But I know trees sound like oceans
in the shadow of a new moon.
July is fresh bronzed and unconditioned
fed with berries and barbecues, summer
vacations of lasers in the eye and sore
spines, and you dare to question
what I am worth?
It’s July—I am a statue housing
a robin’s nest in my elbow and the warmth
of my parents in my chest.
Taking up space, in debt to field mice
incapable of trapping.
Do not call yourself comfortable to imply
that I am not.
– Leah Skay
…
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My daughter always looks up.
She’s bored of what we’ve got here on land
even when we’re somewhere nice, beautiful actually.
She lies on the blanket and refuses to look at anything but up.
Our stay at Lake Burns has been simple, well-deserved.
The other kids laugh and cry but my daughter sits quietly.
Jane says I should be grateful for this rare version of motherhood. I miss Jane.
– Lillian Tzanev…
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offers me a map of the forest
leads me through it in a sandpaper suit
where each tree seems to know a different language
the ground grows spongy, sinks and then drops away
just roots and rocks and odd dark pools
and the hawthorn bristles in broad Scots:
each berry o’ mine is a planet
and lower: this wood is not for you.
An ash-tree is a great silver-green god
but all the gods are dying
black-tipped stems only show
once the rot has the trunk.
Greensands, gault and kimmeridge clay.
No compass points, there’s no signal
the map leads us both scrambling
from one low ferned branch to another
tall black cypresses whisper in Occitan
the maples in maybe Croatian
slippery leaf-mould and hart’s-tongue ferns
foxgloves fringe a clearing
round a huge service-tree
in autumn crimson and hung with bletting fruit.…
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The doctor points to my beating heart
on the ultrasound screen like I should know
by sight whether that dark, wet shape
looks healthy. Outside, the sun disappears.
I passed the people wearing polymer glasses
on my drive to the hospital. When the pain
started, I pissed myself. The doctor assures me
I’ve got a strong ticker. This, she implies,
is despite my choices. My hunger,
my bird-bones, my body unable to bleed each month.
I used to be a real person, I whisper, watching
the squelching heart speed up.
I kissed girls & ate cheese fries & ran
beside the Monongahela River & believed
I would see multiple eclipses, in my lifetime,
long as it would surely be.
– Megan Williams…
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She deftly navigates the aisles of the flea market
without paying much attention to the furniture,
jewelry, rugs, posters, pottery, books, any of it.
Nibbling at a tissue-wrapped éclair in one hand,
she thumbs away at a cell phone game on the other
and, to the irritation of vendors and customers alike,
concurrently holds a conference call with speaker on.
She cuts deals, makes trades, accuses, cajoles.
A fluffy white Pomeranian on a leash of sapphire
beads is tethered to her gold lame belt. She lashes
out at Bob, Eveline, and Joanna, principals
at the main office in New York. Time is short…
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Sometimes all you have
To write on is the receipt
Back for a pair
Of books you bought,
And lines of poetry
Shorten accordingly.
Sometimes, in the finale of
Winter, flaxen lawns,
Ashen trees beneath
Chimney smoke, and
Scoured sand are
All the colors seated
In your world, and you wonder
What’s the warmth you
Find in so small a palette.…
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Grey walls, and cold fluorescent lights buzzing like bees
They sit there, rubber stamps in hand,
they are gods of small power and big and important paperwork
I smile through the glass at my own misery
Forms to fill,
……………….lines to stand in, and the hell questions
and these voices, each syllable is a nail driven into my patience
I see them shuffle their piles of nothingness, like poker players with a losing hand, but
they’re not bluffing
They do not laugh, but they do drink coffee because they are people too, and they need
sometimes to take a break from breaking the human souls
Coffee cups they clutch like trophies of their small evil victories
I stand there, like shit stinking, waiting for a nod, a wink, a sign that I exist
But the clock on the wall is the only one that moves, and its ticks are louder than my
thoughts
And when I finally reach the end of this line, this torture, I’ll be free!…
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