After she figured out what to do with her life
or the rest of her life or maybe just next in her life
she discovered the years months weeks days hours
minutes seconds lining up and waiting to be filled
although with what exactly wasn’t terribly clear.
Here was the question behind all the others:
what to do with this seemingly endless span that
was in fact finite or the fact that her demise was
only a matter of time and yet the exact instant in
all its startling specificity could never be divined
or the way mortality made a mockery of her effort
to figure out what to do next given her life might
end at any moment this seemingly ceaseless array
of years months weeks days hours minutes seconds
needing to be used lived spent then suddenly not.…
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We’re in the ultrasound room. I stare at the blank screen, it having only my information on it for now. It’s last November again. We’re here for the first time and all I am worried about is if the internal wand will hurt. Our doctor’s words remind me: honestly, it’s probably smaller than him. I never knew no baby was even an option. My tests told me positive, my symptoms told me pregnant. But the ultrasound showed that these were true and not. We both stared at that screen. Silence. We didn’t know we were staring at our miscarriage. But it is not then, it is today— so we stare at the empty screen and hope not to repeat history. The tech remembers us.…
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Ten days after Christmas,
a six-foot-four woman in heels
clops in front of me from
the convenience store bathroom,
her face sweats tree lights
with her candy cane eyes
as the scent of pine
lingers in the pop aisle.
Red tights blend thighs and cheeks
into a sack of presents now
leaning beside her man of five-five
who tosses another scratcher
into his pile of losers.…
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I read Ken’s poem online
about his father and the paucity
of love words
the mental leaps
across the gaps
of knowing love was there
it reminded me how Dad
loved us without ever
saying that word
without giving up
his helpful notes
on jobs we should apply for
or cars we might buy
or ways we should save money
like the way he saved words
his suicide note typed out
with his one good hand
apologized
for leaving the way he did
he was proud of each of us
and wanted us to care for mom
whom he said deserved
great love
and then he signed it
Dad
– Mimi Whittaker
Note: This piece was originally self-published in a book called In a Dark Sea.…
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Last time I gripped
a badminton racquet: Puerto Rico.
Wide white sand bracketed
by palm trees, Atlantic Ocean.
Small waves rose a half mile
from shore
broke in rhythmic ripples,
spilled warm water
onto heated afternoon sand.
Tardy for family dinner
and we didn’t care,
protected by vaulted status
of newly betrothed.
There was no badminton.
We snorkeled in a crescent cove,
searching for the barracuda
Bob glimpsed the day before,
sharp needle-file nose
sliced through clear water.
He likes to hang out in that reef,
Bob said,
dove under.
I shook my head like a dog
freeing water from her ears.
Grinned with anticipation.
The man I’m about to marry
believes he thinks like a barracuda.
– Christy Wise…
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I rage
I rage against so much that I cannot handle all this pain in my body
I refuse to submit to the numbness of apathy
Of the sugar coated nihilism of easy escape plans
Halfhearted shrugs
This is the way it’s always been
And they move clockwise, another cog in this blood soaked, dying machine
I rage against it all
Scream to jumpstart the momentum
Force myself to stay standing
Move against those shoving me back
I exhale and run due north
Where change lies and a better future waits for us
– Amanda Leon
Author’s Note: I wrote this poem after a school shooting occurred in the news, and witnessed a congressman’s response to the question if there was anything lawmakers could do to pass gun control or any measures to keep children safe.…
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Instead of being, so beautiful
You could photograph
The yearly
Flight-of-the-soot-faced-children
Pinocchio-esque from the mines
So eat your damn vegetables
Or maybe flip a coin
After all
A coin flipped
On the surface of the moon?
You could make a lot of wishes while its turning
– Izzy Maxson
Author’s Note: “Guilt trip” is kind of a surreal little monolog of a poem, and the title is to some extent my having fun with the idea of a poem hectoring of badgering or moralizing to the reader.…
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