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. …
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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…
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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.…
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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…
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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…
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Morning; Yellow Tree
From death, from darkness
A new life emerges
Sparks and flares teeming with energy
Reside upon the amber obelisk
Temporal guardian of the landscape
Arise as do the sun
Noon; Orange Tree
Hearts of the earth, bloomed anew
Endure the iron fist of the meridian
Yet you, burnt orange maple
Remain position
Sentinel with a thousand arms
Overseeing creation, benevolent shade
Evening; Red Tree
Bask within the sol of life
Tree within earth’s garden
Lit aflame, yet ever standing
Flares of spirit empower
A maroon body of nature
As the sun sets, I await a new sunrise
– Luke Park…
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You’ve told me more about Saturday nights
than I want to know. Fridays were big at
our house: paycheck, bar, pan to the crown when
he came home swinging. The morning after
was like church a day early: guilt. Always
a headache in cast iron, no buses
but two cars in the driveway, a stack of
bills paid for during the week. By the fifth
day, he wanted to be a child again,
swagger like a teen inside a middle
aged paunch, expectations for life thwarted
by time and poor decisions, a father,
lost and overboard in a leaky
life boat, briefly sharing provisions while
eyeing the life preservers and the oars.
– Sandra Kolankiewicz…
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