Day 2 / Poem 2

Self-Portrait as a Dead Boy / Joanna Grant

What I had:

I had hair I could cut myself,
     never once in my eyes
     never touching my neck
     spiky up top like a little
     red bird’s feathered crest

I had legs that could keep me
    on my pony’s bare back
    as my friends and I rode miles
    of farm streams and dirt tracks

I had arms that could pile logs
     under old sheets of wood,
     ramps for my ten-speed bike
     and I to fly high

I had my dad’s old blunt jackknife,
     A slingshot, a bare chest
     Freckled and white
     Naked and unafraid
     To be seen out in the sun

And not even an inkling that soon they’d all be gone

Astray /  Judit Hollos

The lights are still flickering among the ruins, 
just like rime frost sparkling on fallen leaves on a neverending December night. 
There are no more dawns left but I can sense a heaven somewhere, 
hidden behind a sky filled with billowing smoke while half-orphaned children
are playing among the debris, building homes from cardboard boxes.
 
All the bridges had been blown up by the invading troops 
so it will take a while until I will be able to hear more 
than my own restless thoughts screaming in my head 
while I’m trudging through the charred remains of the unrecognizable streets, 
fuming with ghost-like memories,
exhaling crusted summers. 
I hoped that sooner or later, I would find my neighbour 
who used to offer me a bowl of lentil soup every night 
while the war raged on but her tiny flat now exudes a hostile emptiness, 
as if she had never really planned to stay there for an entire lifetime. 
I’ve heard that each day, more and more people disappear to spend unusually long holidays 
in far away lands, torn away from their families and friends. 
I have no idea what is happening to the departed ones 
but every now and then, a brief message arrives that informs us they are doing „just fine”, 
even though their eventful schedule at the adventure camp prevents them from writing more.
 
I have no idea if my parents and siblings have survived the bombings 
and the uncertainty looms at times so large 
that I’m hesitating if I should even start looking for them, 
if I should risk the desolate walk seeded with rubbles and ripped power lines 
in an otherwordly landscape. 
This is what it must feel like when one starts to lose their mind, 
as time and time again, frail fragments of distant but familiar voices 
whisper my name from behind the vast curtain of silver smog. 
A sharp, metallic smell erases the sky and the snow-white coats of masked men 
around me slowly unveil another world, perhaps leading into another life. 
It’s not quite clear yet why these anxious tones address me as grandma 
while they keep grabbing my withered hand resting on the neatly ironed linen. 
On a tray right next to me, a funny black device is beeping relentlessly with notifications, 
one after another, and as I look into the blazing lights, I can hear a young girl exclaiming: 
„She’s coming around!”  

no animal / Brice Maiurro

last summer was a hot one
the wasps weren’t having it

by the late days of the season
they had worked up to a fit 
of desperate rage 
at the ready to attack anyone 
who made even the smallest intrusion
into their personal space

no wasps in east denver were more angry 
than the ones that frequented the bush
at thirteenth & vine street
they swam through the air 
like they were whiskey-drunk on heat 

they were vicious
dysregulated
incendiary with no room to
weigh in on slow questions like 
what harm could they mitigate
& what harm was clearly justified

by the end of the season they had gotten all of us
first me shortly after shelsea
even poor willka had fallen victim to their sharp stings
her snout swelled up beyond recognition 

no matter–
she handled it with such an immense grace

the entirety of her time at the vet
(where she patiently waited for a very
 expensive shot of benadryl)
she was as resolute as a monk

i think she knows what us humans are so quick 
to want to forget–
that we are all animals here
no animal will refrain from madness 
when sanity is taken from them 
no animal will not bite 
when you pull away the hand that feeds them 
& this i believe is the peace that guided willka 
not me 
to the other side of the pain she inherited

some part of her seemed to know
            what the wasps knew
that it is getting too hot outside

the wasps no different than the forests
that set aflame on the worst days
of our worst summers so far

rage is an alarm
a desperate boundary

the echo of our own deafness
unto itself

when i had my turn at being stung
i ran to the nearby ice cream shop
asked for a cup of ice & sat down

slowed down 
icing my new swelling wound
its red hot eye glaring at me 
            a message
you did this to me
& i’ve had enough

My Psychic Friend Tells Me I Have Hate in My Heart  / Kimberly O’Connor

The good news is  
it’s not my hate– 
it’s my ancestors’. The  
bad news is their  
hate is my hate.  
I am told to  
daily try to clear  
my heart of it.  
I try to think  
what they would have  
hated, my people. Sinners: 
the gays. Gamblers, drunks,  
and dancers. Women, for  
eating the apple. My  
people would have hated 
people who were richer  
than them from envy; 
people who were poorer  
than them from fear.  
People who were smarter  
for showing off, people  
who were dumber for 
shame. My people hated  
themselves. My heart beats  
not wanted not wanted.   
This is the heart  
I was given. This  
is the heart I honor.

A Visit to the DMV on Broad  / Michael Schad

A woman assigns numbers 
to people entering the small waiting room
which leads to a large room, 
reminiscent of Union Station,
but not so Grand or bustling
because row upon row of seats are filled with people waiting 
for their number to appear on a digital board 
so they can go to a window and file their paperwork,
or take a driver’s test, 
or renew their Class C license. 
My friend Romesh crutches forward to windows “18-21” 
after waiting in a line by the front door
where we were told to go down a hallway
to windows “18-21”. 
Romesh held a doctor’s note
to procure a handicap parking pass,
and the room, the room is littered 
with others who struggled down the hallway to windows “18-21”.
A partially deaf man asks a questions to the woman who assigned us “N59” 
on a small sheet of paper. The woman points to his number, “N55”, and then points 
to a seat.
We sit and wait. 

Within You and Without You / Elizabeth Wolf

Brody’s father often traveled
for medical conferences.
He was a Very Important Doctor
chairing sections of Breakthrough Research.
He came home itching to spot
anything not up to his exacting standards.
When the boys were younger he beat them.
Now that they were man-sized, he was less
physical with his children. His sons
stayed close to home certain days
standing by their mother.

Sad Girl filled her time waiting
for Brody to be available. She knew
family always came first, and that
the more troubles families hid within their walls
the tighter the binds. Sad Girl wondered
since she was so far outside of family life
if she would ever feel on the inside again.