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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She swims in Winnipesaukee to capture loons
on film. Their oily feathers are black and white.
A squall disrupts the summer afternoon.
When heavy rain clouds burst like water balloons,
New Hampshire’s favorite fowl disperse in flight.
Why visit Winnipesaukee? To capture loons
on film requires a telescopic lens.
Lightning and thunder explode like dynamite
when squalls disrupt the summer afternoons.
Her hopes for perfect pictures lie in ruins.
She works so hard to photograph the sight
of Winnipesaukee’s elusive flocks of loons.
Their call resembles the sound of contrabassoons
tuning for a symphony at night.
Summer squalls disrupt the afternoons
when eager scouts arrive at camp in June.
Buying postcards is for hypocrites!
She drinks to Winnipesaukee to toast the loons,
but squanders her dreams in cheap saloons.…
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I am a collection, fragile, fine,
A glass menagerie, smooth, divine.
Each curve and edge, a story told,
Of strength in fire, of spirit bold.
Some days I stand, unshaken, tall,
A crystal fortress, never to fall.
The world admires my gleaming light,
Unaware I tremble in the night.
For glass can bear the weight of years,
Yet shatter soft in silent fears.
A breath too harsh, a touch unkind,
And fractures creep through soul and mind.
But oh, how beauty lies within
The way the light plays on my skin.
Each crack a map of where I’ve been,
Each flaw a proof: I’m ‘living’ glass.
So see me strong, yet handle rare,
For I am crafted thin as air.
A sculpture spun from joy and pain
Both unbreakable… and breakable, the same.…
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