I fear I have become
a lip gloss girlie—
it was an impulse purchase,
that clear tube
of goo
with the cute packaging,
something totally outside
my nature
of torn jeans
and bare faces,
the Eau de tomboy
wafting from my neck,
yet the swipe
of a little doe-foot applicator
brings out my femininity—
my features,
now soft and serene
where they were once
sharp and rugged,
I thought it not possible
to claw away
my masculinity,
and find underneath
a womanly complexion,
but I fear
I have become
a girl again,
giddy and free
glossy to the touch.
– Theo Sterling… ...continue reading
The things you need
burn
watch your prayers travel in smoke & ash
some nights all raging spirits sleep
or your ikenga wrestles them
that orb diced in symmetry
one part revolts
the other misses the bullseye
you gather your prayers
in the fire’s heart
flames fanned faster, the necessary escape
velocity
one part of you sours like Blues
yet taste the other
skin can be sweet in the second
round
hear your jubilee
burn
watch prayer mediate into silent
ash.
– Victor Ogan… ...continue reading
I
My husband and I spotted the deer
lying in the woods
outside the college library.
Through a tunnel of green leaves,
she held our gaze.
Eighty years before our visit,
his mother came here to college,
a tall, shy girl burdened
by her mother’s expectations.
She found a young woman’s paradise.
Stately buildings on sloping lawns
housed lecture halls and classrooms,
dormitories and common rooms,
a dining hall with chandeliers
and murals on the walls.
There was a boathouse on the lake
and trails through the woods.
When she wasn’t studying,
she loved playing the piano
and sailing a Sunfish
on the silvery lake.
II
When Wells College was founded in 1868,
the founder’s son gave the school
a marble statue of Minerva.
It was a contemporary copy
of a Roman statue in the Vatican,
itself a replica of a Greek bronze.… ...continue reading
Old Fort, North Carolina after Helene
Nobody asked you to come back.
You told yourself it was just to see the damage.
Just to see what would finally break.
The jukebox is still there—half-buried in silt behind the diner.
The glass is splintered, and when you trace the web,
your finger pulls back grit and a smear of blood.
She laughed at something you said, and you pretended not to notice.
You think about touching it. You don’t.
You think about “Fingertips,” the little Motown scream.
Whose music gets to stay? The song still plays in your head.
It tastes like the metal of the gas station pump on your tongue.… ...continue reading
You belong to a yellow nowhere, the sleepless life in
a broken world—All homeless, soldiers, bullies—Weak and strong,
all the same people in the wrong somewhere, a swirling
cloud—Now. Look, listen. Holes in the sky, crevasse in
the ground. In the yellow nowhere, the between of the
nothing, sleepless and living—Homeless, bully, soldier, whichever you are
now, you were, will be—Listen. Look. The hole in
the sky is a door, the swirling cloud a path,
and now, now, you can leave this wrong somewhere—Now.
Look. Listen. Decide—this is the only now you have.
– Laura Williams… ...continue reading
I thought I saw my old co-worker standing in line to get coffee
He was one of my favorite people, but I knew that when
I quit my job I would never see him again
Aside for the occasional post on Facebook
I smiled at him on my last day and acted as if it wasn’t a big deal to me
But it was a huge loss.
I looked at the man again and realized
That they looked nothing alike
Except for the wrinkles in his forehead
He used to talk to me through the partition of our cubicle
And got very excited about the littlest things
He would share his voicemails with me
And no one else
He worked with old people
Delivering books to the homebound
Knowing that someday they would be dead
So he saved the voicemails for as long as he had the space to do so… ...continue reading
From my rear-view window,
filtered through the haze of an overcast sun,
a trail of hand painted signs drift by.
Weathered planks and chipping paint,
promises of produce and shoefly pie,
cutting through the endless blur of
farm and field.
Miles pass by in this way,
undisturbed by the glare of streetlights
and the growing shadow
of billboards waiting down the road.
Who knew there were some many
ways to say the word hate?
One look across the horizon and
I find myself a hundred miles down,
below the mason dixon.
A little red town.… ...continue reading