July - Poem 13
Goodnight, Flaming Moon / Clayre Benzadon
In the dark, every-
thing looks different.
I mistook a bird
for a small drone.
I mistook light
for neon hazardous slime
oozing at the outskirts
of my bedroom, a Goodnight
Moon flaming eeriness.
Null of uncontrollable
distortions: shadow-
making. A coconut
rolls down a stair-
case. A dog sits
atop a mini moon
in the corner. Empty
slippers squish
berries, and my tooth
is a wound lapping
up the cloudriver.
Inside my violin
lives a moth, machine-
made. When I lie
in bed, I’m saturated
by the vivid magic,
its magic. This is
fine, I tell myself,
this is swell.
14 Facts About The SS Anne / RJ Ingram
1 She sank just off the coast & just outta screen.
2 Gambling was illegal but popular & while accessible on shore it was inevitable aboard the SS Anne.
3 The chef rotated his menu according to the weather.
4 The day the ship sank the chef served rockfish & ghost coral.
5 A friendship was shattered hours before the storm.
6 Their lives diverted over a rat a mouse & a lightning bolt.
7 Everyone who remembers their first betrayal can understand.
8 Not to mention the man with purple hair who summoned a dragon.
9 If all we are is a reason for them to take back control I say let’s give it.
10 Clearly the animals have more right to the elements than we do.
11 But that boy’s rat didn’t have to die.
12 And the ship didn’t have to sink.
13 What happened to that miraculous orb?
14 Oh yeah that sank too. Hop on, we’re going down.
Daughter / MeraBaird Kuar
Fingers lifted, cramped, a hint
of lavender still spread under
the nails the rhythm, pace
choreography, joy flung
around the porch beneath
her hopping feet, the gap
between her teeth house
little bubbles, full of echo
and locate, here always
seeping out, multiplies
enough times to have formed
exact replicas that infect
those of us, who bear witness
to her youth, as it dances
eyes closed, everything else
wide open.
how to live forever / Kes Maro
sticky with salt, press
against the sand & hear
how the sea howls
at the shore. become a piece
of fish breaking between
a giant’s tongue & the roof
of her mouth. taste like
butter & fennel underneath
all your salt. yesterday, you
were a fluke, sideways-eyed
traveling close to the shallow
ocean bed. the day before that,
you were the layer of rot
blanketing that same floor,
a fractured fish bone. eventually,
you might want to be
the jellyfish, moon-faced,
thoughtless & reborn over
& over, the same in changing
waters. instead you’ll be
a question of decay, a consistency
you’ll never touch.
13 Things I Hate About You / Azmia Ricchuito
I hate that I have no home,
that I exist in a haunted house.
It’s not like the movies at all.
I hate that it’s been years
and I’ve never unpacked.
I hate that there’s no space for me,
not even as your savior,
and that I’m breaking bones
to fit inside garbage bags,
suitcases, closets.
I hate having to buy things I already own
because a car can only hold so much.
I hate feeling like I’m one bad night away
from the worst night of my life.
I hate the smell of alcohol.
I hate it when you breathe kerosene.
I hate guns—
that I have one hidden away for safety.
I’d like to throw it into the Atlantic,
but that’s bad for the environment.
I hate when the phone rings
because I always think
it’s going to be that call.
I hate waking up
and already wanting
to go back to sleep.
I’m fresh out of copium.
I hate that you’re not
who I wanted you to be.
I hate that I know
what you did that summer.
I hate that you chose drugs over me.
I hate that I still care.
Sickly Sweet / Tammy Smith
Death, may I call you pretty,
or is that too gruesome
on the tip of my tongue—
pink and wet,
slick enough
to slide down my throat
like candy?
When I open my mouth,
you are sickly sweet music
my childhood memories pluck,
a toy violin
tucked beneath my chin.
My overgrown body plays
a medley of oh no,
it can’t be, and
when I think
no one is listening,
the rhapsody
of why me.
Two Tercets & Three Lines Missing from an Unfinished Villanelle / Daphne Stanford
For clinking trinkets lost to first sun rays
At dawn, you searched the barely fallen snow
Before a moth could fly toward flambé
In restaurants that overlooked the bay
Bakers of Puget Sound tossed high their dough
Dusty triangles shiny with gold lamé
