my dad died two days before trump was sworn in for the second time. i’m not sure i ever saw myself in his face but i thought I’d at least recognize the pieces of me that came from him. etched somewhere against the life he’d lived and the things he saw. maybe side by side id be able to ware down the hardness of his eyes and see them in my own. I’m still a child, his child, one that has not known much else but ease, and ease looks different, it feels different. ease to me is, never being limited. I think your hardness came from the potential for so much more. the things you didn’t get to live and the things you didn’t get to see.…
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I walk past the same corner each day
where I would sit between classes
and talk to you, where the skateboarder
nearly collided
into me
as you spoke of your old friend
who was dying of cancer
but wouldn’t stop smoking
and I complained of my anemia
how I barely had the energy
to stand in front of a class
for thirty minutes
And all the time I was wondering
how much longer
we could keep it going
because this was a thing
we had been doing for twenty years
without ever agreeing to
or addressing it because
that might entail giving it up…
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As she sat
bent over,
in the least-smudged chair of my garden set,
my sister told of
a neighbour who styled his garden
—its stubborn hedges and out-of-average-reach trees—
with hair tweezers and nail clippers (for feet).
As she drank
her coffee,
cross clover continued to unroot the grass,
and drunk wasps circled ground-struck apricots,
while unimpeachable ivy
succeeded in suffocating the “permanent” plants
in the borders—green nooses left unseen.
As my eyes
grazed over
the playfully growing decay, I knew
she wasn’t talking about my nature
and though I already had my answer, I still asked
my sister—
‘You think the garden has something to say[?]’
– Josje Weusten…
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Outside the wide front windows, rain is washing
the field of concrete with sheets of
water, the cars sitting like obedient puppies
as grime falls away from their coats
Outside the windows, laughing people scurry
under any overhang to keep dry and
pull back their children who strain to slap the soles
of their feet -and the soul of
their hearts- against the shining surface of
gathering puddles
Outside the windows, two men sit where they
found refuge for smokers under the
window overhang, a tin can as ashtray balanced
on the bench between them,
the profile of the elder showing him speak as
the younger reaches a hand to touch
the frail man’s shoulder.
Inside the windows, the air has turned the shade
found at the mouth of a cave, shadows
in far corners, growing darker deeper inside the
usually bright bar.…
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the streets are slick with Fidel Castro’s ambition. Tears and blood flow through the pipes underneath and remain collected in the large clay jars planted in front of my family’s former homes. Red, white, and blue patriotism may be a reason for execution if arranged improperly on the flag. America still restricts travel to the island, where my father is unrecognizable as a citizen of the United States. The streetlights cease even to flicker above crumbling roads that were once a path through the Pearl of the Antilles. Graying yellow and teal buildings surrender themselves to relentless winds that whip up from the sugarcane fields to reveal only an overpowering flavor of salt instead. The city brings memories too painful to explore into the hearts of my abuelos; it is a reminder that the grass was greener and the ocean more inviting.…
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We do our best to escape
the shadow of the wreath.
Nothin’ but a losin’ battle.
Our hearts we dye in grey,
with fate we stain and streak.
Colors of imbalance.
Death is a lengthy day
that all will fully know.
The end will come before
or after
in the moon or through the sea.
We do our best to escape
the shadow of the wreath.
– Lance Mazmanian
Author’s Note: This poem was written with a nod toward the October 1987 song “History Will Teach Us Nothing” by Sting (aka Gordon Sumner). No real relation apart from rhythm.…
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—november
a year ago this morning
as orange oak leaves drifted
from branch to ground
i was making love
not knowing
a year ago midday
i showered and went
to work, warmed against
crackling frost palming
the window glass
not knowing
a year ago 12:34 p.m.
i missed the call
a year ago 12:37 p.m.
inoperable brain bleed—
i barely heard through
the barking of six dogs.
dad held the phone to your mouth.
your last garbled words—
go inventory your dogs
a year ago 1:21 p.m.
i hurled my duffel into
the car i’d put 15,000
miles on that year
crying at least 8,000
drove past november
trees, lawn stippled red,
brown, fragrant black
knowing
it was the last time i
would see home this way
that when i returned
rainbow leaves would
be rotting muck
winter hanging heavy
on the garden fence
cemetery ground too frozen
to bury anything
as alive as
sorrow
– Megan Peralta…
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