August - Poem 3

Tomatoes / Zoe Berger

I want a table 
of only tomatoes, 
I want sweet 
and I want wild, everyone 
just happy to be here. 
We could let our minds 
rattle our tongues, 
laughing in red rooms 
after dinner, all of us glowing 
in our skins, naked 
with clothes on, our joy 
expanding 
beyond the senses. 

Another List Poem   / Ashley Howell

(inspired by The Waters of March by Antônio Carlos Jobim )

it’s the rivers of March
the sun of deep July
it’s an inhale
a concrete morning
the way my baby
runs to the water
it’s the sun behind smoke
blue cinnamon notes
hanging late-summer air
it’s a heart pounding
it's both river and wolf
it's nail biting
and bleeding fingers
it’s craving a cigarette
as he took his last breath
it’s the moon on that morning
it’s the sound of a ghost

Modern God / Dahhee Chung

Ants scattered across the dusty wooden floor,
Milling about a grain of rice and a drop of sauce,
Morsels that missed my boy’s mouth,
Too big for small hands,
Too small for greedy guts, 
And my hands too weary to wipe clean
All of the above. 
I wonder if god created the world today,
Would he have created the world in two days,
Then rested three and four,
So he could spend five thinking 
Just make the damn humans
Doom scroll for inspiration on six, 
Buy a wand on Amazon,
pay the extra 2.99 to have it sent same day,
Yet leave the package unopened on his porch floor on seven,

Because it’s Sunday. 

Tensegrity / Alison Henderson

When being beautiful isn’t enough,
even to marry rich,
because the bones contain
no marrow,
only tears.

There is nothing I can say or do
to flush the bloodrot,
dharma and dark matter.

My body disobeys the moon.

No matter how wet
the nights get.

No matter
how white the walls.

The sordid smile
that animated you
bred a long darkness,
fractal man to fragile girl.

Your ant-hole eyes.
Patent leather business boot,
lamb-soled.

Hands around my ankles.
My head against the wall.
Black Gordian rot.

Daddy.

I cannot make them stay,
even with my best dress on.

Stuffing

in my shoes,
in my bra.

Strutting.
Longing.

My roadkill heart
keeps beating.

My heartstrings have no resonance.
Nothing but wire
holds me up.

Deep city groundwater
even the sun won’t touch.

My soft skull,
filled with sand
and torn-out stories.

A stone that crumbles
in your palm.

My white-hot, wiry stare.
Wavy golden hair,
even when I shaved it.

Years and years
of braided tears,
even where the river once held.

Someday,
I’m gonna pay the rent.

Ursa Major / Ash Kemp

For Erica

Drinking Liquid Death while Olivia Rodrigo sings
good for you,
hands clenching the can, contemplating the next week.
Sutured, sore, still kicking,
I’m not done yet.

Drinking water and remembering the metallic taste of the past,
good for you,
taking each defeat like a mother bear defending her cubs.
Crossing galaxies of pain,
I’ll get there yet.

Drinking little sips of joy from friends and music,
good for you,
letting the feeling in,
passing it to the other side
of forgiveness.

Forever drinking care and defeat,
good for you,
the refrain on repeat,
Scars and burdens part of the game, but
they aren’t going to take me out.

A path of drinks,
a path of stars,
a path beyond denial of care
and concern.
I’m not done yet.

In the Style of The Little Engine That Could / Hannah Page

I think I can I think I can I think I
can recall the freight
engine of my wildest
dreams spelling out this
litany, this scripted
melody – intending as intention
does to manifest the rest of the
tracks ahead. Heat-hazy years
unfurling one fragrant beat
before each miracle, each
trompe l’oeil detail among each
abstract pattern. Sunset blushing
the pond, glinting off the algae’d
turtle shells; the buttercups
sunnying my startled chin placed
at my white throat by the hand
of girl whose name has long
slipped backwards through
the currents of memory.

On the Boardwalk / PF Potvin

“Did you hear that?”
wondered the kid
about three, his green helmet

tilted like a turtle shell
beret as he stood
straddling his bike

on the boardwalk. I looked
down and raised my brows.
“I thought that was an eagle

screaming.” He studied my face
then grinned and turned,
his eyes tracing the black

rubber skid behind
his rear tire. I remembered mine
but mostly in gravel. Brown

snakes hissing roars
down the driveway until
someone called, snapping us

out of the BMX dream
and into the house
just at the edge of darkness

On the occasion of listening to a thunderstorm from my porch  /  Janette Schafer

8:12 AM and the morning is still dark,
wind strong enough to stir the heavy boughs
of the ancient pine that keeps watch 
in my front yard, the resin thick, luminous.
The smell bathes the yard in green, 
petrichor. Jane Kenyon, today’s

meditation. The sound of rain 
and thunder held me to my bed, 
kept my blanket sweet. The whiff
of coffee, its warmth
at my mouth, the pine and I
greet the rain together.

Phone Call from a Red-Throated Grosbeak  / Kate Thuma

Sometimes I wonder where birds sat before telephone wires
and if they listen in on the calls we make to each other
the same way we do to theirs.
– Trev Cimenski 

They feel our voices zinging up through their prehistoric feet
and echoing inside their bird brains in their own singing language.  
They’re better able to translate what they hear than we are. 

They can sense the vibrational difference between good news and bad. 
They know the meaning of our gasps of recognition 
and painful silences and connected yeses, 

and some of their calls are answers to ours –  
Red-throated grosbeak congratulations, 
Chickadee sorries, 
Bluebird I’m with yous. 
Crows bringing trinkets are saying “I heard you lost something.” 

Maybe they’ve heard enough to look at us the same way 
we do a cardinal with a broken wing. 
Beyond help. A poor thing.