March - Poem 3
Window / Kathleen Bednarek
-thinking of Lorine Niedecker
Portal into field
Unchanging frame
Unknowing
Wyoming
-
Green & brown dots for cows
My body with its eye-
rises
A piece of paper rolled-up &
Stuck in the hole
In the screen
To keep the mosquito
Out
How I learned words
Given to the sky
Now read out loud
To the mountains
Over my book
Time / Mymona Bibi
there are some
who are great
with time,
they swim through
it or it swims
through them
and their fingertips
never wrinkle.
instead time
is something
i choke
on catch
in my throat,
spit out
and lift
my head to find
spite in my eyes.
when the time
swimmers float
towards me,
the clocks
break.
i am elated
by the witch
from my nightmares
who kisses
my forehead,
plucks time
from my throat
and tells me to
swim,
i dive
into the pool.
when my head
resurfaces
the sun rises
and i smile
in pain.
what a pleasure!
to feel this body
in another body,
the clock face
relaxed.
tears are nothing
but calls
to ocean.
Mother's Shrine / Susan Hankla
In old albums, sometimes they've cut around a picture
and stood the inch-tall photo against the black page.
I have one of those of Mother (her splendid legs cut off)
I keep in a plastic box which I don't know what to do with.
It's by my keyboard.
In it, I've added a chip of purple glass I once thought was amethyst
until I dropped that brooch from my grandmother on my office floor.
Earlier, when I thought it was made of amethyst, I 'd sent it to my cousin's daughter.
She never thanked me.
Waiting too long for a note from her, I asked that she mail my brooch back.
After more long months, she tucked a nearly illegible note to send
with the pin. Her chilly little message was about the nature of misunderstanding.
She never knew her great grandmother, but what I wouldn't give
to have got a thank you note from Ruth mentioning the heirloom. Not being thanked
made me lonelier than ever, ever I was-- the butt of her joke.
One day Mother sends me a handwritten note.
First Friends / Amy Haworth
My two friends would come to play
Board games and Barbie dolls
From 10 to 2 we'd huddle down
Happy as we could be.
My two friends would come to play
Until there was a fight.
She threw a fit and yelled and screamed
Until the other cried.
My two friends would fight each day
And then I'd set things right
With mother's tone and lessons taught
They headed to their home.
My mother asked if they had left
(I knew she could not know.)
My friends, you see, were made of air.
Alive to me alone.
One left behind when we did move
The other came along.
I never wondered where she lived
Or if she had home.
My two friends would come to play
They were mine alone.
Ghosts or angels — who would know?
For I was not alone.
Please Exit the Ride to Your Left / Christina McCleanhan
To understand is to land
beyond
the chewed rim
of your styrofoam cup.
at the party
we were laughing
haha
hilarious
Hey...
come back,
come back…what happened…
to the Santa hat?
haha
hilarious
like most,
our evening passed
in silence
haha
hilarious
then, there were
only voices left
to adjust
only seams left
to patrol
no need to stage my nightmare
with your spotlight guillotine
my eyes were already wide
when we
walked
to the fenceline
the stars
that night, they wept
A Refresher / Elizabeth McGraw
Sitting in the chair under the glare I see my skin sink and dull.
Color at the roots tips left bare, lipstick still bright red.
I am hoping for a miracle or just a small nudge further from dread.
The clock is ticking.
I've actually somewhere to go but they won't know where I've been
except for the clean trim and filtered smile
that shows I am ready to begin again.
The candle, not quite a tealight / Alexis Wolfe
the candle, not quite a tealight
waves its neck at my eroding
spray roses; their water is milk
