The Thief Who Stole Our Father / Luisa Berne
When the thief came he started small.
Only stealing little things from our father
words in the middle of sentences, routs to favorite paces.
Things we hardly noticed.
We ignored the thief appearing for a moment or two to pilfer things,
small recent memories, then receding into the afternoon light.
The nimble-fingered thief left the old ones,
memories that were warn and soft like old flannel sheets,
those were not fresh and shiny enough for the thief.
Then one day the thief stole all that happened last week,
right from under our father’s nose.
Now the thief lurked always in shadows.
We begged him to leave our father a lone,
begged him to give the week back.
The thief only gave a sharp toothed
smiled, shook his head, and would not relent or leave.
The thief even ate all of our father’s favorite cookies,
and left the tea cold on the table forgotten.
Then, the thief took us from our father.
With a sly hand, the thief scooped up our faces and names,
deftly plucked the memories from his head like stray
dog hair on a pair of black pants.
And our father smiled at the sun and asked
us who are you? Why are you here?
When we told him, pleaded with him to remember.
He admitted we looked familiar but could not place
why exactly he recognized us.
All the while the thief snickered in the background
holding our father’s memories of us
Deadheading the Marigolds / Scott Burnam
for my Grandmother’s original gifts & for Robin who gave them to me once again
a soft rain visited overnight
just enough to silence the usually-satisfying snap
as i pinch the dead heads from their stalks
making way for novel flowers that require more
space more
prominence more
energy
beside you in the flowerbed, Grandmother, in morning Earth, your skilled and still
communion with the flowers and the soil sparked all of my senses:
the coolness and grit of damp dirt on my hands
the taut beauty of a new head about to burst
their musky-spice scent to repel no-see-ums
and even a bitter, earthy tea made from the dried heads
all this beauty in these small things
your satisfaction with having enough
and the small exercises that compounded to the actual lessons
about harmony, space, utility, and the smallest victories
that fifty years later are mine again
delivered by another love
Drop Crazy / David Estringel
Drop-Crazy_Day-4.docx
anything purple / Catherine Forest
While window shopping
Not more twiggy manikins
But bodacious treasures
About That Bucket List / Erika Seshadri
33. Shout “Drinks are on me!” in a bar and mean it
34. Play a serious game of soccer using a cabbage
35. Overcome fear of flying over the ocean
36. Hang out with an elephant
37. Sleep in the rainforest
38. Find the love of my life
39. Hug a cow in India
40. Learn to SCUBA dive
41. Befriend a dolphin
42. Camp in the Gila Wilderness
43. Rescue senior horses
44. Grow a goddamn tomato
Once, during the warm Florida winter, I met
a retired circus elephant named Carol.
We hit it off.
I stroked her wrinkled face with my hand.
She wiped tears off my cheek with her trunk.
When she died the next day, my husband said
meeting me must have been the only thing left
on her bucket list.
Occasionally-Cruel Sisters / Arthur Turfa
Like those old folk songs about two sisters,
one with hair of gold, one with dark tresses,
enemies from the same womb and family,
one slays the other whose death is avenged.
Called sibling rivalry in modern times,
our mothers parried and thrust throughout life.
Too genteel for explosions, resentment
simmered from my mother toward her sister.
My cousins and I share information
attempting to solve the unsolvable.
Love for the same boy, or jealousy of
musical skill when the other had none?
The origin is elusive, lost in
time. We shake our heads and get on with life.
