April - Poem 8
untitled / Maureen Alsop
Candy Cigarettes / Bob Bradshaw
You’d roll your tube
of candy lipstick
over your lips,
trying to look as sultry
as Brigitte Bardot
with her pout.
While you printed the air
with your fake kisses,
I’d open my pack
of chalky sweet
cigarettes.
The packs came in covers
similar to Dad’s
in King’s, Round Ups,
Stallions, Jolly
Winstons.
I’d smoke a cigarette,
halos wafting into the air,
as I imagined
James Dean
lighting up,
Natalie Wood and the future
loitering around
his Mercury Coupe.
Our future was a drag race
I looked forward to.
For now it was enough
that I looked cool.
James Dean
cool.
Examining Natural History / Stan Galloway
Pliny claimed,
There is a wild beast,
the oryx, who steadfastly watches
Sirius rise, then sneezes, as in worship.
I’ve seen the oryx
a hundred at a time
in Kalahari grass
preparing for the dusk
– none watched the sky –
perhaps one watched
shadows underneath
acacia trees for lions
it’s pickaxe horns
formidable defense
when threatened as a herd.
Black-backed jackals
give scant concern.
The rare strandwolf
has not been seen
in generations.
The Dog Star holds
no secret lure or talisman
despite its brightness.
The sneezing is more likely
from the chaff and dust
stirred up by winter’s Cape Doctor
cold and dry.
*my paraphrase from Pliny’s Natural History, circa CE 77.
Forest / Ava Hu
after words from Waorani leader Nemonte Nenquimo
*
Stories are living beings.
We, the river, we
the river. The river
we wash with the ash
from burning trees.
Mother Earth
will
not be saved.
She does not need
to be saved.
Jaguars crisscross
asphalt.
Give back the blood of the land.
Bones of our elders.
Give it back.
Stories are living beings.
Whistle of the piha.
Chant of howler monkeys.
The highway accelerates
destruction.
A god wakes
in the trees.
Put your hands
over your ears.
*
End of the World / Kirsten Miles
narrow strip of resilience
a thin green blade
one hundred feet above the ocean’s
slow rhythmic exhale
air vibrates
a hummingbird rises
salt-stung vines in the hush
on the edge of this great, vertical silence
we gather on this precarious spine
without boundaries
strangers form
a small huddle of breath and expectation
low murmurs blend with the tide, whispers in fragments
inky slate blue sheet of the Salish Sea
lapping the bluff’s sheer base, shifting with
a slow, muscular inhale
ocean softens into pewter
we stretch our eyes, wait together in the star struck dark
for the first thin wash
ghost light across the sky
a pillar of light pulls itself down — pale shiver of violet
more like memory than color
the sky finally yields
vertical curtains of emerald drape across the horizon
a rhythmic spilling
waves of fuchsia gyrate and whorl above our upturned faces
silhouettes against a solar panoply of voices
older than the earth under our feet
Oh Brother Where Art Thou? / Sergiy Pustogarov
solo goose,
no v formation,
no honks,
a single speck
in the blue,
not a painting
across the
sky.
just shoot
from any
side.
the goose flies on.
you missed
the only target
in the sky,
and dropped lead
into mere liquid.
water.
ripples.
no wings.
even the
frogs
stay hidden.
nature knew
you
were shooting
something
into its world.
just lead,
sinking
down.
we never
found the
remains.
haiku for the one getting away / nat raum
you loved me like ash
loves a beige sofa cushion—
stains are permanent.
God B / Daniel Avery Weiss
less America!
Go Dbles Samerica!
Godble Ssamerica!
G Odblessa Merica!
Godbles Sam Erica!
L And Ofthe Free!
Landofthe Free!
Land ofthefree!
La Ndo Fth Efree!
Land
Ho Meoft He Brave!
Homeo Ft Hebr Ave!
H Omeofthebr Av E!
Home Oft He Brave!
Hom Eofth Eb Rave!
A whole civilization will die tonight, never to be brought back again.
Awholeci vili za tion willdieto ni ght, n evertobe bro ughtba ckagai n.
Aw hole civiliz ationwi lldi eto ni g ht,ne v ert obebro ugh tbac kagain.
Awh olec iv il izat i onwilld iet on ig ht,n evertobe b r o u g htbackagain.
Awho leciv ili zat ionw ill diet onight, nevert obe brou ghtb ackagain.
who will die night, never to be brought back again.
on boundaries / MK Zariel
a text chain is a contained brutality, a collection
of sharp winds damaging each structure until
you can't even notice what's left and what remains—
logistical drift like the air slowly growing toxic,
like a thin layer of smog that remains unexplained. i have been
a people-pleaser for a long time—beware my verbal fillers
the award i'll likely win for a thousand repetitions of the accursed phrase
i'm fine with anything! a text chain is a poorly contained waterspout
and i an drenched in the remains of my dignity. did you know that "sure"
actually means "please don't"? did you know that i am somehow a
worse texter than ChatGPT? an email is a wind-swept plain full of
death traps buried under the sands, the rare oasis only found
when one procrastinates. do you love me anyway?
