May - Poem 9
Lines / M. Anne Avera
im not afraid of anything at all/not the way the trees cast shadows in my bedroom/not the cockroaches along the floorboard/not the mattress squeaks or the benadryl sleep/i used to think there was bravery/in being scared/like if i was strong enough to admit it things would take a step back/far back/so far away they turn to pinpricks/and i can no longer see them/but the truth is theres nothing at all to be afraid of/theres power in the knowledge/theres growth within that thought/but maybe wishing for fear to go away completely/is a fear in and of itself
Sword of Victory / Desirae Chacon
You Victory comes like endless cavalries of barded horses
standing for the sunrise
ready forth to march on
& delivery justice
at its finest
like a shining sword
of reinforced steel
ignited with Silver
& Sovereignty of Vindication
Judgement does reign
and Truth does stand everlasting
To every corner of the land
inlaid in every place
Forever these will always Stand.
Energized. Exhausted. / Heather Frankland
During track meets in high school
we would sit in the sun
wearing sweats and hope
that we could be batteries—
energy and warmth, warmth and energy.
Then there were the days
when we wanted discomfort
thin shorts and shirts
naked skin, no protection—
no sweats or sweatshirts.
The wind, cold and brutal and painful,
to be so exposed—it’ll make me run faster
we’d say or that shivering energizes me.
We needed to believe it
because that run in that cold air
always the worst on the last 100 meters
hurt our lungs, made our bodies feel heavier.
Then there were the days
that the rain made the track slick
and we worried about falling
or sliding and twisting an ankle.
We’d run two laps at the start
just to test the track—which parts
were dry, which were wet,
which were not safe.
We’d share the forecast.
Sometimes, I can’t believe I was
a runner, that I was mediocre-fast,
that my legs had muscles so hard
that I could tighten them almost
like a fist. I can’t believe
that I ran for fun with friends
telling stories before we
raced at the end. I can’t believe
I tolerated running;
it’s never been my favorite sport.
But I remember the pain, the reward,
the weight of my body
not fast like wind, not always steady
but still able to transform into something
worthy of a red ribbon—and sometimes blue
and sometimes white—and sometimes
just barely crossing the finish line
tired, yes, but staying in full stride.
See You in the Funny Papers! / John Hanright
I don’t actually like lasagna.
I just pretend to eat it while the cartoonists are sketching my likeness.
As soon as they leave for their lunch break, I shove the plate off the table
And step out of the studio to light up a catnip pre-roll in the parking lot.
Jon hops out of his car and walks over,
Scolding me for smoking.
“Y’know, Jon, the best way to quit is to stop after the last one.”
He just shakes his head and goes inside. I take the paper from the newsstand
And flip to the funnies.
Hagar the Horrible, my favorite!
I pace around the parking lot
And drift in and out of myself. They say
A little piece of you goes into any artwork – however small the frame.
As my fur starts to go grey in my sight,
The paper jaundices in my paws,
And my story begins to fade out.
The dotted white lines on the road
Give way to my past, present, and future.
Staring into bright lights, I close my eyes.
The scream of tire against asphalt –
Suddenly thrown –
Seeing streaks of dusky sky flip over on itself before
All is in darkness.
No pain.
No flights of angels singing.
Nothing but the sound of car doors slamming and muffled voices.
My eyes open to the dusky sky again.
Lucidity, that’s not like what I’ve heard of the afterlife.
Why is there a man
Where my mangled body should be?
And why does that man look so much like Jon might look if he ever got himself –
That damn SOB gave his life
For me?
Honey / Jillian Humphrey
I put things in my mouth
that don’t belong there.
The past, a small marble — I turn it
over and over under my tongue.
Also a gun.
The gun is only imagined,
so don’t worry too much.
After a few days of playing pretend
God takes the marble.
The gun he turns into honey.
Shoulder / Shane Moran
—After Deborah Landau & for Frank
Should we try cropped tanks? We spoke on it the whole Waymo ride.
Heterosexuals, what good would our bellybuttons do
Out for everyone to see? Well, we could invent new men,
Unless we’re chicken. Oh. We’re doing it again—
Look at us—the only ones in North Beach covered up,
Desperate to fuck a stranger. Do I know the real you?
Eventually, we gotta let the party know how hard we train,
Risk a quick squeeze on our bare skin—risk a chill up the spine.
In This Season Of Migration / Christina Vagenius
I want to marvel again,
at the whisper of birdsong -
pileated and red-bellied.
The Merganser crowns
and catbird cries
that sound like newborns.
I have no time for petty mouths
or blame. The unhealed wounds
and gilded shame. Tired, of excuses
charmed takes. Manufactured
frailty in its wake.
Instead, the marvel.
All downy and hooded
and double-breasted,
skimming the shallows
for depth. Give me
the fog-licked lake
and all her scorious
secrets. The Green Heron
and her certainty. The Loon’s
quiet descent into darkness.
I will wait on the owls,
barred and short-eared
forlorn as they go.
And the turtle
that never doubts her turn
in the sun. Hang tight,
you vultures and muskrats.
You fire-eyed opossums,
your carnivorous tongues.
Your time will come.
But for now, I wait
on the Wood Thrush.
No conspiracy between
her notes. The sound
of spring, early morning
taste of rain from a daffodil’s
swollen cup. What is there
left to know?
For Rubén Darío / Sonya Wohletz
] gauze netting
splitting fruit
yerba buena
near the porticozancudos shiver
the afternoon
sacred heart flames
parnassus and its
wild dogs ] león, nicaragua
head turned away
cinders drift
earth trembles
the zinc roofs
market empty
at noon ] from the pronaos
blue körfezptera in disarray
enemy sails
blue winds
blue winds ] the far peaks
suspended in blue
fragments
marble fragments
cloud bones
or kiss
of blessed tree ] dissolving
the symbols ] sorrow
crowns itself
in wisdom
