To That Girl in My Class Last Semester / Joanna Grant
Sometimes, your skin is brown,
sometimes, it’s white. Sometimes,
your hair is short—next time, a mass
of corkscrew curls. No matter, really.
I can pick you out from all the other girls.
You’re the one who looks away then
stares me down, defiant, insolent.
The one who finds her way unerringly
to my last nerve. And tries it. I sniff
you out the way an animal scents pain
Or seizure. What can I say to you, girl?
That I used to be your kind. You know how
to find your own. And I know that, before too
long, I’ll get it—the paper all about the things
she did, your mother, stepmother, father’s latest
girlfriend, aunt, grandmother, whoever it was
who was supposed to have your back. Who just
kept turning hers. Who cut you down. Forgot
to pick you up from school. Left town. Loved
the boy much more than you. And showed it.
You see me now, your teacher—just another
parlor aunt to carp, nitpick, point out that you
look fat in that. Any chink in my armor? You’re in.
Scoring a point. Getting some of your own back,
Right? But I want to tell you I’m not like them.
That I’m your friend. That not all other
women are your mortal enemy. I just wish
that you could see me. See how I used to
be you. See how I made it through. And maybe,
maybe, just maybe, girl, you can, too.
Coming of age / Judit Hollos
The shards that plagued my sight have finally melted from my eyes
a myriad pieces of Goblin glass burnt away by warm tears
the same tears that raised rose bushes from the ground
and made their petals take the shape of angels.
No more distorted kisses to numb me from the cold,
no more chilled hugs to make me forget my folks at home
no more puzzles of ice on the Snow Queen’s frozen lake
spelling out hollow words of snowflake-perfect reason.
It’s like waking from a dream, unmoored from the sorceress’s shore
ice splinters caught up in our dance, then fallen on the floor.
it’s now the high-altitude comfort of an airplane cabin
instead of sleighing past the town square to reach up to the clouds
with our memories in full bloom, we have finally grown up
but only Gerda managed to make it into adulthood,
In tormented landscapes, at the feet of my Queen’s throne,
I’m still spinning around in an endless whirl of witch dance
embraced by a umbilical cord spiked with dead flowers
my shards have never melted, just fallen into threir new place.
wolves (elementary morality) / Zach Hauptman
fairy tale bloody teeth darkened forest
luminous eyes
full basket curving path icy river
red cloak
wandering footsteps disturbed branches solitary animal
off track
torn coat abandoned
grandmother’s door open
dress and hat folded
the empty basket
neatly set aside
two more sets of eyes
between the dark trees
beckoning woods idle afternoon secret shadows
missing huntsman
what we talk about when we talk about the weather / Brice Maiurro
if we talk about the weather
than we talk about the weather
of us all
we talk about
the disappearance
of snow
before our very eyes
we talk about the year
that denver became seattle
the year it drowned in the tears
it didn’t know it had
if we talk about
the weather we talk about
what we see
when we turn our view
to the horizon
we talk about the dead deer
on the side o
the rainslick highway
where beyond the thin margin
the charred trees talk all day
& all night
about the weather
when we talk about
the weather
we talk unimaginable sorrow
the weight of the pain
that we have held forever
upon our shoulders
the long weight
that just might
break the sky
as we know it
if we don’t talk about politics
there will be nothing
left to say
eventually our hand
will disappear
before us
eventually we will
unlearn each other’s names
our names
which carry the story
of the shoemaker
before us
who made shoes
for the boy soldiers
on the eve of the war
our names which carry
the heavy leaves
of the olive tree
left behind
when we were forced
to leave
old worlds
& the new worlds
that are born
with a family name
like a photograph
within an inherited locket
our names may carry the name
of another–
the great grandmother
who said no–
when no one
ever taught her
that no–
was the most important
part of her name
who said no–
when she was told
don’t talk politics
who said no–
to the storm
that was bigger
than her
but not bigger than
the stories
we amass when
we open our mouths
to share & to feed
if we don’t talk about sex
then we don’t talk
about the way
our joy is inextricably entwined
with creation
we don’t talk about
the way that we came
to be here
nor the abundance
we hold
in our naked bodies
these are the songs
that are hidden
beneath the war they’ve waged
since forever
& these are the songs
sung by the innocent in quiet rooms
with a wall between them
& the bombs
if we don’t talk about religion
then we just might
forget that we pray
to the same god
& that god
is the mystery
that god
is the path
that god
is the past
that god who
is calling upon us now
to speak the words
they don’t want us to say
to one another
to hear the words
that we used to call
spells
the words
that weren’t made
to make for polite company
but the words with the right friction
to keep us warm
in winter
Graduation / Kimberly O’Connor
And we find ourselves again
gathered to watch the procession,
to hear the speeches, the endless
variations on life’s a journey
not a destination, yet this—
now! is an arrival: they were
kindergartners clutching
their safety scissors, nosebleeds
and Velcro… and for an instant after
the list of names has been recited,
after they’ve walked across the stage,
after they turn their tassels,
they fling! toss! hurl! the caps
in the open air and they become
a flock of prospect against the sky’s
dazzling canvas…
Butter God / Michael Schad
Orange-reddish robes drip off shaved headed men
with droopy banded beaded necklaces.
My parents have taken me to the American Museum of
Natural History which meant a long ride on the L.I.R.R.,
and then a subway uptown where a bunch of kids surround
a bucket with a butter block while monks carefully sculpt buddhas.
The block of butter laid in icy water, and one kid shove
a hand in the butter bucket, poked the block – indenting it-
we wildly staid our own hands while we watched it patiently
bob under the water almost pushing through the last sliver of water, only
for a finger to submerge it again. Sinking:
People weave around bald monks, butter, icy
buckets, and the Enlightened One is melting.
What the moon held in its curve / Kashiana Singh
She was always leaving. Even when she stayed, she leaned toward distance—toward that disappearing point on the horizon. I watched from the window, the airplane trembling at 30,000 feet, the moon trailing beside us like a secret that couldn’t keep still.
Waxing and waning
she shrinks into a dot
airplane window
Night deepened and stretched, filled with sounds that didn’t quite belong. An owl called out once, then again. The silence that followed seemed to mock him.
Gibbous moon
the night owl howls
in vain
Even in your absence, I find remnants of you—hidden in corners, tucked in glances. Sometimes, even my grief looks like something you gave me.
Treasure trove
my tears gather
in your eyes
Contrasting Images / Elizabeth Wolf
One Valentine’s Day
I stood at the Hoffman Breast Cente
for diagnostic baseline x-rays,
every 15 degrees,
of both breasts.
step up & squeeze/ lean in/ hold back the hair
hold please/ breathe & thank you
step up & squeeze / lean back/ slide the pudge
hold please/ breathe & thank yo
Afterwards too sore to hug,
I called my husband out of a bar
to drive an hour home,
stopping en route to pick up our daughter
from her friend’s house, where they had spent
the afternoon after school sorting
first grade valentines and eating too much sugar
spinning giggling & spinning
through a pink and shiny day.
