March - Poem 14
To the Fox Running Full Barrel Across the Road at Night, / Kathleen Bednarek
Vulpes vulpes
you wear a night cape
you listen to the Misfits
your shiny mouth smiling
jaw pulled
back by the gauge of your run
a page lit-torn & flung
over moon water
a tangerine sheared
a cigarette flicked
a firepath dashed perpendicular
atop old hot rod rubber
surviving faster than blinking
your eyes split and catch
Fish / Mymona Bibi
When you fed me your words, you told me about the first time the fish you caught was bigger than your brother’s. That fish has reappeared. I saw it in the bathtub, dead, floating, gutted. Still the pride of that day lives in your eyes.
Rebecca / Susan Hankla
Too late, I heard cancer settled into your milky breasts.
Your body had been perfectly Carrera marble,
which might have been dealt with well, so that you'd be
somewhat restored. For that I am sorry. But my darling
debutante, of the thigh-high 70's fashion boots, like silk waders, you
of the fingertips-to-elbow kid gloves in the bell of your coming out mini-
dress ringing, ringing a kind of pretty warning. In our twenties we were trains
too fast to board, so we shrank to toys.
I see why we didn't apply ourselves to tasks, smoking grass at parties,
while others made the next brave moves. Some guided us out to the road,
even waited with us. Gave us pantsuits for interviews, listened while
we practiced what we'd say, feeding us hardtack prayers. But you were already fleeing,
while I loitered by a rented punch bowl, or sliced wedding cake,
or waited, waited by the borrowed car for a tow, untended tires
thin as balloons, maps all flown away, like purple martins shot
out of the trees by the violet dawn.
Lunch Time / Amy Haworth
Lunch’s time
has a majority stake in
the idea that
it occurs at noon
but zones of time
and hunger in degrees
are the true temperature for when
to wander to the microwave for
small talk in 30 second increments
as I nourish and sustain
between
multi-colored jenga blocks that tell
me where to be from 9 to 5.
Stopping for real lunch is
loosening my ski boots in the lodge
with the same effect
so most days I choose
room temp, desk view
and buy time
in 30 second increments closer
to progressing digital conversations,
ideas in slides and
ways to loosen the hold of the status quo
fueled by remains of yesterday’s
dinner.
For Anyone Hungry / Christina McCleanhan
Keep quiet, my darling.
Your mind is thirsty,
Your ankles are weak,
Your belly is hungry.
Those gentle folk,
who matter,
are looking for you-
lanterns lit,
gourds filled
with joy, waiting to
take turns feeding you love
and honey and buttered grits.
One day, real soon, you will be a
grown woman with babydoll hair,
whispering, “Maybe I can try.”
Go on, sweet, sweet lady.
Weep, first.
Weep for your mistakes, wrong turns,
willingness to drink
Coke flat, and the time spent
whisking meringue that fails to peak.
For God’s sake, let the threading of
acceptance warm your veins-
death, loss, cannot be reversed, and
biscuits will not be flaky without
cold butter cut into each fold.
But jam,
jam made from strawberries picked and
sorted by careful, patient hands
almost always sweetens the
deal.
Friday Night / Elizabeth McGraw
Friday
6th day of the week
Penultimate
Not penultimate for some, strange
Letting the tight rope go
Night
Twilight
Sleep
Rest
Dormant
Cheesecake
Scrumptious
Creamy
Rich
Delicious
Factory
Fabric
Oppression
Productivity
Machine
Breaking News this is hardly a poem / Alexis Wolfe
everything is Breaking News lately and who am i to argue. J and i talk about interior/exterior writing like its urgent, the former like finding a private fountain filled with mute swans but you’re invited to the property, maybe. everyone is bookclubbing their clubbish book lately we can’t even read alone. we sidestep labyrinth of false messages and i keep my phone in a box near the front door. our democracy has whittled to fanfiction and no, they’re not eating children, yes, we’re approaching the underbelly of the world. what we really need is to fine-tune our good-enough instruments, no one goes to the cobbler anymore. someone once told me the theory or principle that posits just paying attention to matter changes its molecular structure but I think she misremembered the unradical observer effect which is not about transformation by attention alone rather change by direct observation which always involves instrumentation sigh. i’m thinking quantum entanglement or maybe quantum decoherence i’ve never had a mind for principles. i’m thinking of all of the women obsessed with Egypt that have never been to Egypt. I’m thinking sharp movements always catch the corner of my eye, i’m too slow or i’m dreaming
