Songs of the Perimenopause: Parole / Joanna Grant
All this time behind walls and bars
partly of my own making—apprehended,
accused, adjudicated, finally paroled—
And now I’ve wadded up my linens,
turned in my badge, my orange jumpsuit,
my plastic bracelet, my leftover noodles—
swapped my number for my old maiden name,
my wallet, my keys relinquished to me
in a clear plastic bag with official receipt.
I’ve got a few more miles and wrinkles
on me now than when I first went in—
my white skin pale and speckled as the
underside of a trout, almost see-through
in the right kind of light—
but this wild green grass feels so fucking good
and from here on out bitches I tell you what—
it’s just me and the fresh air and windows
rolled down and everywhere that golden,
gorgeous, dying, magnificent sun—
Interludes / Judit Hollos
I used to be a weird kid
a kindergarten-aged insomniac
laying awake all afternoon long
starving for spectacles and candy floss
waiting for my first visit to circus
only to wander around the corridors
not mindig my parents’ temporary loss
hoping to find miracles beyond secret doors
and be able to see behind the curtains
instead I stumbled upon a lonely clown
tying her shoelaces in a dim hallway
her screaming red-hair and honking nose
scared the hell out of me so I ran away
and ruined the event for my whole family.
I grew up to be a weird adult
walked high slacklines to tame my demons
caressed their coarse mane with wounded hands
and put my head into their jaws in vain
the next day they grew back all the same
I tied them up with a clattering chain
adorned them with lacquered masks of scorn
and poked fun of their myriad faces
used my laptop to mirror their traces
until no more dreadful clowns were born
wandering through empty corridor-mazes
hoping to find miracles beyond secret loss
rustling under the weight of virtual crowds
I only found echoes of what I’ve lost.
Stray Kids, May 28 / Zach Hauptman
I went to a concert the day before my mother’s birthday
It’s been three years since her death
And I am singing in a language she never taught me
My throat is sore
And I want to lay snapshots of my night
On the kitchen table
Drink too-sweet tea and only slightly-freezer burnt bagels
with rough crumbs that scratch my already damaged throat
weaving / Brice Maiurro
for thousands & thousands of years they say
humans have been using our hands to weave
intersecting the weft across the warp
looming together otherwise disparate parts
silent in the round within the grove
of the larger forest or solemn in a shady spot
among the plains the desert upon the high mesa
the greater spirit has brought us together
to share long wisdoms that need long days
to slither across to wind into one another
to sit in circle & slowly form a basket
to hold freshly harvested sweet corn
newly foraged porcini mushrooms
a place for plucked apples & oranges to land
detached at the navel from mother tree
then emptied across a low table
to pass to peel to eat to digest along with the day
into the once empty basket of our bodies
the table maybe legless maybe made of legs either way
runs along this persistent river that we call our survival
where we borrow simple pieces of this earth
& with vision bend them to hold our abundance
never forgetting that our most precious stories
our most tender of fruits were once held in the basket
of the vast black sky–a basket loomed together
through time & through space–the two threads
that defy their very binary–carried along
in the cosmic arms that holds us in the nook
of its elbow & carry us carefully onward
Rattlecam.org FAQ / Kimberly O’Connor
Does the presence of the camera affect the snakes’ behavior?
Today two snakes perform a tango,
rising to their tails, twisting,
wheeling, intertwining, while
the others watch, enraptured.
When they finish applause is
thousands of rattles at once.
Next’s a stand-up comic.
We don’t get the jokes but
the reptile audience shivers
with laughter. Then a tap dancer
follows several soloists in a row:
a snake sings an aria, a snake
recites a sonnet. When the show’s over
they slither into the den and
for a long time nothing happens—
look! Now two adolescents have snuck
out after curfew to cavort
in front of the camera. They
make faces, display forked tongues,
turn around and wave their rattles
wildly. We watch, captivated.
In our humanness, we never
contemplated such antics might occur.
Who knew this richness of their secret lives?
The Bay of Poets / Michael Schad
A sudden storm arose and from it Percy’s
boat flipped from a floating fortress to a sinking stone
while Lord Byron was known to swim alone
for hours from shore to shore and back.
Mary cried, but continue to write
both husband and monster floated away
beneath and atop water, I stood on the shores
of Lerici to understand why they were here,
why Bryon, the Shelley’s, Dante, and Petrarch
camped out in old boat houses and hotels
to write and watch fishermen come and go.
I even thought about swimming,
then simply closed my eyes to embrace.
The Sidewalk Remembers / Kashiana Singh
War slogans fade
on old sidewalks—
a dove flies.
A cracked egg rests
in a basket,
staying alive.
Spider afternoons,
suddenly—
a thick, wild grass.
Enjoying the return,
we breathe under
melting sidewalks.
Stinging tears fall
on painted faces
of viral dreams.
Raging a world
with no borders,
only chalk and wings.
FAQ: Retirement / Elizabeth Wolf
Q: How do you spend your time in retirement?
A: However I want. That’s kind of the point, and it’s delightful.
Q: No, really, did you set up classes or activities for different days of the week?
A: The days of the week aren’t so different, when you’re not locked into a work schedule. My brother described it well: Every day is a weekend; none of them are Monday.
Q: Don’t you get bored?
A: Have you ever been bored at work? Stared out the window, stirring black coffee, wishing you were doing something else? That’s what I’m doing: all those things you couldn’t get to when you gave your best and brightest hours to the boss.
Q: Don’t you ever miss real life?
A: Real life is what you make of it. You’ve always had the power, Dorothy. Click your heels three times.
