June - Poem 20

Doubt / Kristina Byas

Still.
Still not.
Still am.
Am I still?

My Father Talks About Death / Shavahn Dorris-Jefferson

My dad says people are dying
who have never died before,
and I wonder if he’s talking
about me: little girl
in the picture—taffeta skirt,
socks trimmed in lace, pony-
tails, bangs, eyes
swollen from crying.

My dad says people are dying
in their sleep and not waking up:
eight-year old me pretending
to doze just so he’d pick me
up and take me to bed.

Object In the Mind of Others  / Jess Tønseth Lee Gleason

The only meaning in life is to reside as a good object in the minds of others. 
– Tom Hiddleston quoting a “very wise man”

Longing is not strong enough verb for once
to be a thing, beloved as a childhood 
stuffed toy, velveteen and come to life,

trying to holler with my spaghetti-thread mouth
don’t trust anyone 
who tells you they are a nice
person, trust someone
who is kind to you.

Because nice is not kind.
Nice will tell you a lie and swear by it.
Kind will yell you truth while swearing.
Nice is in the lips painted red.
Kind is in the eyes rimmed red.

I want to live, wiser than Yoda
who proclaimed to do or do not,
there is no try. To try is all
we can swim to when we’re unfathomed.

Nice is thoughts and prayers.
Kind is protesting.

Object in the minds of others
that strength is your arms, your legs.
Object it’s the size of your soul in god’s.
Strength snuggles fawn-shapped 
in bramble space
between heart and lungs in someone else,
eating bark and leaves and clover,
so the sun can shine down, finally
with finality, on the grave fresh
for the son buried warm
for lavender to grow in.

Angel Sonnet 4  / Shane Moran

Beryl conjures his father’s famous courage and smears
the butter on the bagel and makes the coffee with two sugars
just as John likes it. He knocks with only two quick strikes 
and after John’s come in, he slips his way into the office,

minding coffee. He sets it down on the coffee table 
in the middle of the office and asks John for a talk.
I have been here for four years, John, and I would like 
the opportunity to do more than assist your daily tasks.

And John looks at Beryl and laughs, then do it—
you don’t get a new job by only doing your job, kid.
Beryl nodded and turned around leaving the office.
He leaves the building for the last time, smiling.

──────────────────

4.  who learns 
to sing
      and does 
not know?

Dear M—, / Jingyu Li

It’s been hard to speak the truth lately. My hair’s 
been on fire but the painting hand still moves. The brush tip 
touches paper in calm strokes as if knowing some truth I don’t.
How can I speak what I do not know? The familiar feelings 
are not coming, so I must invite them like guests. I had a dream
a girl with the same name went missing. Her boyfriend 
came looking for her and I thought I could be of help. Almost 
immediately, I knew something bad had come of her. That was 
the end of the dream. When I woke, I was only glad to have felt 
strongly. I didn’t consider what the dream meant. It's bullshit 
isn’t it? That dreams are trying to tell you something. We only 
think that when there’s something we want to tell ourselves. 

I think I miss myself. I think I fear that I’m dead. 
Or that some parallel existence of me is dead. It shouldn’t 
matter because I didn’t like her all that much. 
But dear god I miss her. 

Seneca Rocks   / Stefanie Zito

Seneca stands out 
of place, a shifted stone
forced from his home
of the sunken sea. 
A hardened tsunami wedged 
between green covered mountains
strained upright by jagged time.
This rocking relic remembers
his origin, boasting hefted artifact 
with a wave of his towering tidal fin
in resistance to fitting in.