The gathering of flesh tightly against itself,
the beginning of a seam.
When I was a child
I went for a walk in the woods—
the mountain laurel blossoms lit up the bushes
like the kitschy lights of a 1970’s Christmas tree. I cut my arm open
falling off that old wooden zipline there, the one with the red painted seat
and the wooden handlebars, the one that severed the mountains
in half. The branches cut my skin
to lace. There was not
a single binding stitch
on my skull after the surgeon mended my brain, threads
seal the inside from the out, and instead the surgery
was done through my thigh. During a rupture, blood
seeps through the mind like ink across a wet page. …
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I visited some fish
in a manmade pond each
a swimming body a mouth
opening and closing a tail
steering the muscle of self
through shallow waters
One small white fish leaped up
twice into air then vanished
back under
Two narrow yellow fish
hiding within a rocky shelter darted out
for brief glimpses
The whole dark surface aswim
with purple blue orange
speckled contrasting bodies rippled
at my feet reflecting light churned
by the fish…
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Lumped even before the liftoff my prayers take their bonnets off and bang their sketchy heads against the mirror. You’ve come here alone, you will die here alone.
Here alone—but I believe in heaven. Remain in love with him who finds no door out of drowning. Wait in the entrance of a cinema to watch nothing, with no one.
At 10 AM I remind a child crossing the snow-eaten street to hold the hand of his dead mother a breath-shaped figure with the trouble of being still walking beside him.
In the afternoon, a police operation leaves a dead dog behind. Bullet-twirled. A levitation. Only by looking at it I can tell the dog is no longer a dog so I take that thing that is not itself home the way you would put an exigent newborn back the distant crib, and then back the dream.…
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Let wind music carry you in what direction it chooses,
whispering its howl against stung ears.
From behind, white streaks by at peripherals
as though you’re travelling backward through a starfield.
Feel your hair glossed by highlights, damp, &
fresh melt grooving your cheeks where tears might rest.
Take this tranquil journey in a.m. dark,
if only a few feet to fetch the paper.
Pause. Now, look up at the arc lamp
where you’ll see it best: tickertape for your brief parade,
loose confetti, a dazzling haze of glitter.
You can take both calm & chaos with you
indoors to observe through a window
as the verdant flaming undergrowth disappears.
– Ace Boggess…
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undercover like
the backs of my legs in stockings
black soft in memory
weren’t you just saying
you were afraid?
I should have kept the transcript
I did keep the transcript
but I’m too embarrassed
to tell you
it isn’t normal
to save such little moments
make of chair…
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Some days belong to me more than others.
When I lie spread out across your lap,
the sun sends out sprigs of flowering bliss,
your steady breath ripples notes warm as
deer eyes over my hungry hair.
Slowly, I turn over late thoughts in my hands,
nibble the more sensible choices and wrap
the leftovers in scarves of thyme. (Its green suits
me best).
The sun is standing tall.
Your feet tap yesterday’s warmth.
We will pool all statues and lend them our sounds,
our footprints, even, should they agree
to never tell apart our million needs
and some minor niggling prophecies
in what seems to be our bowl of luck
between the kitchen and the laundry room,
the children, the fickle cars and the ill-fated cats.…
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We thought she was half-baked
from the medication
self-control had become overrun with
madness, forgetfulness
all those little pills to kill
the overbearing cancer
little objects found in odd places
left us wondering
‘Why would she do that?’
a ring hidden on a shelf
no one would ever find
unless they got an itch
to dust a shelf no one ever paid
attention to
an old bus pass underneath a basket
on top of the piano
we have since come to believe
to understand, rather
it was all done with purpose, not madness
as little reminders of her because
she was so afraid we might forget
– Ken Tomaro
Author’s Note: Much of my poetry is grounded in real life. This particular poem is the result of the death of a friend and a small glimpse of what happened afterward…
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