December - Poem 10
A Hamster Wheel of Fun And Fortune / Kate Bowers
For Mae and Lane
In 2014, Dutch scientists placed a hamster wheel in the wild. Here’s what we know.
The Road / Katie Collins
The road is made of barbed wire
But there is no other way
The cuts in her feet grow deeper with every step
But she draws closer still to the end of the road
Where weightless clouds wait
To sooth her aching feet
Her secret fear is that even in paradise
The cotton candy clouds will sting
As the sugar seeps into her wounds
And the infection seeks in
At least she’s used to barbed wire
2 baskets and a toaster. Baskets taken. Toaster still available. / Ellen Ferguson
Jane Birkin carried a basket
no toaster anywhere in sight.
Peter Rabbit carried a basket
you wouldn’t catch him near a toaster.
In father mother sister brother
There’s a joke about toasting with tea.
Toast is delicious. I’ll have some now.
No basket needed when you can just eat it.
Lilac / Chris Fong Chew
Stains the pages of the manuscript
musical notes begin to flow
off the paper, into the air, colors
lilac, magenta, sapphire
clouds changing color
as the melody flows
into space, rhythm
and melody combine
into a dazzling show of lights
visible only to the eye of the composer
sitting on the ledge of the piano
bench, and forming shapes
within the lines.
- For Tigran
There’s an infestation in the treehouse / Davis Hicks
There’s termites in my gut-
honeyless, but not hiveless.
Letting me chew on my
ideas before they fester
into
flowers.
Givers of the empty spaces-great carpenters
for the trypophobic, the hydrocodone
of the half-hearted.
They don’t like it when I sleep, and despair whenever I dare
to speak. Not talk- that jabber is their
jelly, that smooth
smallness
is what they chew for fresher breath,
is what they blow bubbles out of.
Rubies begetting
rubies begetting
rubies,
only at a distance.
But speaking, in the way white fences glow purple at sunset,
any kind of given light-
that is their whisper-shroud.
They gnaw at need and chew on
so many foundations, so many
not-yet-rubbles.
They settle well enough during workouts,
during any kind of fire.
But in the after-dark, in twirling tempest-time,
when no amount of sipping will draw up or drown out,
that swarm shackles itself in
every sinew
and regret becomes a business
card shoved in the open mouthed
mailbox of memorial.
What we lost in the floods / Victor Barnuevo Velasco
I am learning the different ways to remember. I recall the scent of garlic burning in coconut oil before I hear the hiss. I feel the grains of crushed aspirin before I taste its sweetness dissolved in a teaspoon. I see the shadow of my head dancing on the wall with the light of the gas lamp before my mother dissolves it into darkness.
I am eight and I hear the sound of my mother’s feet by the door and the scraping of rusty hinges. Right now, I am learning that if I shut my eyes -- as I do whenever I pretend to sleep -- I can see her content and smiling.
I am ten and my mother is waiting by the gate of the school. She is holding my lunch. I smell soy sauce and vinegar. I see grease at the bottom of the paper bag. I hope she packed boiled rice.
I am eleven and she is climbing the stage. I smell lemongrass and camphor as she bends to pin a ribbon for the fourth time. She can barely read the honors she is fixing on my shirt. Her eyes start to tear.
I am fourteen and she is watching from a distance as my father picks me up. She has no words for him; the floods have carried them away the last ten years. I am learning that if I press my hands on my ears, I can hear her mumbling prayers.
I am twenty-three and I have just told her I need to cross time zones. She asks what I like to pack. I tell her I like the roughness of her palm on my hair, when I lay my head on her lap. I like the sound of plates and spoons in the morning. I like the color of her face after a day in the garden, after she has dug vegetables and gathered branches for kindling. I like her laughing when she listens to the gossip on the radio. I like her scolding stares when I tell her gossip from the neighbors.
I am thirty-four. I am listening on the phone. I am trying to remember her voice in the sound I am hearing. I am trying to understand the silences between her words. And the long insistent silence that follows.
I am fifty-five. I am learning that if I sit still and pretend to read, I can see her from across the room. She is staring at me. She thinks I am a permanent fixture in the room. As are the chairs, the rugs, the lamps. The books and trophies on the shelves. The albums of photographs lined up on the table. The ribbons and medals on the wall.
Home / Jen Wagner
Smoke curls from the chimneys,
And I can smell the fires burning
As I grace these back country roads once again.
The only green left in the mountains are the pines.
With boughs weighed down by the snow that remains from the first fall.
It’s been over a week, but the flakes, now frozen, still cling.
The roads are clear but I take my time.
I breathe in deep.
The chilled air and scent of the frozen land fills my lungs.
The sun feels different on days like today.
The rays leave no warmth against my cheeks,
but I feel it bring me to life just the same.
I turn my face directly to its source and close my eyes a little more than I should.
I feel like the flower.
Desperate and needy.
But satisfied.
Black birds line electrical wires.
Crowded together in an attempt to dodge the brisk wind blowing across the empty farmland.
Against grey skies they spread their wings as the gusts becomes too much,
Even for them.
The only color I see ahead of me is the double yellow of the road under my tires.
Until I reach the red light at the end of the lane.
As I come to a stop I shake off the reverie of the last few miles.
The light turns green and I turn on to the busy road.
The one that takes me home.
How to Play / Stacy Walker
Mimic a child experiencing joy.
Giggle when it feels like you could, not just when you must.
Giggle when you least want to.
Walk out the front door and turn the opposite direction you usually do for a walk.
Find your senses and the moment and just move your body.
Play music. Don’t restrict what happens next.
Get on the floor with a ball.
Make a silly face at a friend.
or a dog.
or a ball and a dog.Draw a self-portrait with your non-dominant hand.
Learn a hand-clap song from a child.
Do Madlibs.
Fold up a piece of paper and cut out a snowflake like you did when you were seven.
Learn a riddle. Tell someone.
Stop to see, watch, feel, notice the thing that distracted you, instead of rushing along.
Just let yourself play. Your body knows how.
