I dredged the river of my childhood,
cajoled every voice, pressed every drop
of juice out of silence. Confidence
was an orchard in the sun, rays
revealing the shiny plumpness of apples.
Ripe. Ready. Like a ritual, every gesture
was its own reward, like the return
of the father in the sunset,
who was walking home
bringing a round loaf of bread
and a bottle of red wine as if nothing
had happened. As if he didn’t know
how long he’d been gone, his eyes
lit up: he liked what he saw.
– Lucia Cherciu…
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Will you taste as good in death
as you do in life?
You say that’s up to you, isn’t it?
After you’re cremated, you said,
you don’t wish
to be scattered, rather
you want to be spooned into my daily
morning espressos. I agree.
Sugar ruins the bitter
anyway. In Massachusetts
you’re mandated
to be burned in a coffin,
so I’m already imagining pine,
robin songs
trapped, Costco-brand
lacquer, the wood’s cheep
eons commingled with your tattoos
savory memory, the guttural
romance of your unmentionables,
every still-uncooked
bone. This delectable grief
should take years,
you say. Revolting how we’re supposed
to sit out eternity on a shrine,
or bubble wrapped in an attic,
or tossed to the wind
like a common grandmother.
No. Death, you say, must feed, nourish.…
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for Tony H
Your canary no longer sings.
Its empty beak is filled with foam,
wounded by the body’s unfortunate guest,
a softness disease has taught us.
When color of the sky found us silent;
before illness captivated you, reminding
me of when that hard rain came & we
walked around the block, hands clasped,
as the chemo froze every word, and
we talked to simply stay warm.
If Love is a language that doesn’t exist
until conceived by a bounding sound, rising
in your chest, we’ll put you to bed to sleep
& dream behind an ethereal curtain.
Holding beauty is hard, especially when your
hands are hurting from the strain of letting go.
– Kevin LeMaster…
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after Yehuda Amichai
Hunger will whimper
in your chest until you know it’s there.
Beneath my wrists are the black horns of a ram.
I clench, and they give for my fingers.
The horns are not horns
but the drop handlebars of a bicycle.
The smell of olive oil is really
the musk of a garage. This was a dream
distinctly American—
the horn of the harvest was full.
I had everything I needed
and my stomach only growled
at strangers.
– Jake Goldwasser…
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One thing I learned fast
being married,
he advised over lunch, is that
we can’t share toothpaste.
For 42 years I’ve rolled mine up,
nice and neat, while she can’t even
manage to cap the lid.
The entire conversation I imagined them standing
divided at their bathroom sinks. And when the talk
turned toward other rooms, I tried not to follow–
too young and new to understand anyhow.
I heard a story as a child
of a farmer gifted a purse
that never emptied of coins
and of a widow from the Bible,
her oil and flour that never emptied
of Elijah’s promise from God.
We usually brush our teeth to give
the other a polite hint, to
not ruin the mood.
And against all upbringing and experienced advice
I keep the damn lid open
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You’ve outgrown me now
escaped my serpentine cell
yet your sweat is still
shackled to my flattened film.
Decomposing on your twin-sized bed,
the sun crisps my crevices
scavengers subtract my molecules
but I still remember how it felt
to wear your shivers balled
into adrenaline hands.
– Crystal Cox…
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I look down at my mug. I don’t know why she wanted to see me. I don’t see any sand on her shoes. Somehow we started arguing about themes. Her eyes green-blue, a brew of pine needles and lake water. This woman who was never my teacher.
I ask her how her summer is going. She is occupied with travel and poetry. Taking some beach time and riding her bike. Just mind the barometer. You can’t reduce a poem to slicing baloney, her hand slapping the table. A glass sheet separating vintage theater tickets from her palm.
I’m thinking of writing about levitating desks and helium breath. Myths where clay people use heat to mold faces. My summer isn’t going well. I wanted a rain of sunflower petals.…
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