Children thought the birds were falling off the buildings,
and they thought the birds were on fire.
―from an article in the Washington Post, September 12, 2001
The first few leaves are falling now,
our smiles and laughter echoing
in memories, or how
we were caught on disc or in a photo.
The unanswerable never stops—
there, at the edge of the idlest thought:
to jump from molten towers before both dropped
as though just sprung from dust. While
looking up, children had begun to weep,
thinking we were birds on fire miles
above. Now grown, some bolt from one sleep:
upon a ledge, narrow as a tightrope,
flames at their backs.
Nowhere but down.
– Mark Mansfield…
...continue reading
I sit on a pink lace sofa
underneath the glint & hum of poorly lit
chandeliers. Tucked away in the curve of a cellar
cocktail bar, hidden in a one cathedral town,
far from Manhattan.
Sipping gin with lemon, pretending the tonic
is turpentine
or cyanide.
I watch a white wild haired man engage in conversation
at a table for one—
thumbs up, eyebrows raised, chuckles, & tears.
No reciprocating smiles.
He. Is. Glorious—
in his storytelling to the vase of white oleanders;
much more content
than the couple setting two tables left, trying
to find their reflections in martinis.
Billie Holiday’s “Take all of Me”
is being sung out of tune
by a faded blonde-haired,
blue-eyed fool— you took a part that once was my heart…
but it soothes me.…
...continue reading
Like a balloon with a loose knot,
the air has been seeping out,
and I’ve been sputtering around the room,
dusting under old photographs, checking
expiration dates, emptying boxes,
and rinsing near empty jars.
They asked for recent baby photos
or even a picture of a nephew or a niece.
“How about a picture of a favorite student?” they wonder,
with the keening voice of their good nature.
“Something unique to share with staff.”
And I wonder what to do.
I remember when we clacked shut
the shutters of the boy’s cabin
all at once in the middle of the night.
Later, we shared a box of lemon cookies
on the rippling lake,
fingers white with powdered sugar.
I floated on a kayak all to myself for the first time
on the hush and pull of water,
and we decorated with red hearts
the pictures of the camp counselors
who all looked exactly alike. …
...continue reading
because
there are less universes than clouds
less states to inhabit
than to be dissipated
you have never been in love with
first encounters mainly
that they did only
mean first encounters
the thrill of that somehow swirling
what had become of your heart
before you realize
are you willing to descend
in the evening I will make you
special
– Ann Huang…
...continue reading
We tour southern battlefields
stake our tents on Outer Banks,
slap mosquitoes, chase the trucks
spraying clouds of DDT.
Stake our tents on Outer Banks,
lose our glasses in the sand,
sprayed by clouds of DDT,
sunburned faces, scratching fleas.
Lose our glasses in the sand,
dig to China, tide comes in.
Sunburned faces, scratching fleas,
campfire smoke gets in our eyes.
Dig to China, tide goes out,
we hold hands and jump the waves.
Campfire smoke get in our eyes,
hot dogs, ketchup on white bread.
We hold hands and jump the waves,
salty water up our noses,
hot dogs, ketchup on white bread,
torch our marshmallows in the fire.
Salty water up our noses–
don’t talk back, we’ll get the belt.
Torch our marshmallows in the fire,
watermelon, sweet iced tea.…
...continue reading
Even if we wake before dawn, we nevertheless
inhabit the dark, still feel that need
to light only a sole lamp,
aware of how much we’re yet in that other
world of sleep which is meant
to make this one right.
Those who have been up all
night have more to say
than we who recently rolled the
stone from the mouth of our bed,
but many share rooms with
faces of childhood friends
smiling in fields behind new
houses, breaking through for those
last minutes before the rays of
yesterday are replaced by photons
from this newest return, in the
moments before darkness ceases
to be the vacuum pulling us toward
the heavens and just evaporates.
– Sandra Kolankiewicz…
...continue reading
The last day he was upright, I helped my sister
heave his weight. He didn’t make it to the toilet—
hadn’t in weeks—but he insisted. The horrid,
empty smell was wholly new, and broke me.
He’d eaten nothing for days, what was there left
to void? I gagged as it seeped down his bird leg,
then left my sister to the mess. He was still alert
enough to know that I had turned my back,
and he was hurt, though hurting worse in other ways,
he never mentioned it, taking to bed, for good,
shortly after, leaving me to regret what everyone
regrets after death: the way things were when
there was still any chance of fixing things;
the fact that no one tried.
– Katherine Fallon…
...continue reading