#126: Two Poems by Maryann Corbett

~This poem was previously published in Ruminate (2010).

Late Season Day Trip

Because it could only happen in summer, because

an early start was vital, because we'd run

outside in the grass by the driveway, our sneakers wet,

the air still cool, so early the light went sideways,

because it changed things, because we would be saved

by water from our humid suburban sins,

because we'd begin by driving into the sun,

in oriente, compass point of the pilgrim,

past New Life Church and Transformation Salon

and PMZ Plasma Services, where debt

is washed away in blood, because of hope,

because each year we forgot the hard returning

until it came, the late-night driving back

on the black, unbending highways, the cranky children,

forgot the trash on the seats, forgot the way

we steeled ourselves for the dark and the year's forgetting,

all this is why I can bear to stand on a corner

a thousand miles from the shore, in a second-hand suit,

and wait alone for a bus that will take me to work,

watching others leave at the end of summer,

the early sunlight barreling like a truck

down east-west streets, and the gulls of parking lots

wheeling in carnival arcs, screaming the sea.

*****

#125: "The Bear" by Katherine E. Young

~This poem first appeared in Prairie Schooner (2009). 

The Bear

I.

The bear marauds inside my garden,

plants his tracks among the roses;

his scent lingers in hollies, yews. 

I gather broken branches in

my arms, pocking hands and face

with prickled leaves.  Back inside

the house, my cats do not accept

the tang of bear upon my skin. 

They press their noses to the window,

seeking solace in the glass —

clear-eyed frame that holds us back,

bladed pane that keeps us safe.

II.

The bear says, “I’m not dangerous! 

Let me make a den for you —

I will hang the walls with shells,

drape soft moss across your bed. 

Songs drawn from water will sweeten

the air.  Sometimes I’ll kiss your full,

pleading lips, although they’re not

the type to which I’m accustomed.”

III.

I tell the bear:  “My prince will come

find me.” Clear, uninflected.  The bear

just laughs.  “Does his skin smell

of musk, does his flesh taste

of honey?  Does his fur warm you

in winter?  Does he know to stroke

your cheek with all his claws drawn in?”

IV.

When he holds me in his arms,

I hear roaring in my ear.

V.

The bear says, “Look closely:  there’s

a ring set in my nose.”  And though

I’ve stroked his snout a thousand times,

I’ve never — until now — felt iron

beneath my fingers.  Says the bear,

“Once I begged for my living, I

recited rhymes, my paw outstretched. 

The ring came later, screwed it in

myself, thought I’d live better with

a chain, four walls to steady me.”

VI.

The bear shambles through crowds, snout

turning side to side, eyes

always seeking, I don’t know

what he’s seeking….  He seems to prefer

that I fall two steps back, that way

no one shouts, “Look!  A woman’s

chained to that bear!”  Although the chain’s

invisible.  Although at night,

when he leads me out, no one

sees he’s a bear.

*****

#124: Two Poems by Mark Jay Brewin, Jr.

~This poem was previously published in The Los Angeles Review (2010).

From These Split Ends

            -for Jessica Keough

After I proposed marriage, we decided

to start cutting each other’s hair.

First time, I was drunk on vodka tonics

and used poultry shears, but she trusted me

enough to score off a few inches.

We did it standing in the apartment’s

old cast iron tub, naked, my hands trembling.

Her curls made it difficult. The blades

didn’t trim right, and I strained to snip each lock.

While inspecting the workmanship,

I dropped the shears, nicked her ankle.

I forget how exactly she reacted, but it was calm—

something of a soft glance down.

As I palmed the clutch of her strands,

worried over the neat horizon of hair,

her manner suggested to me, There is time

to get better. I planted the split ends in the wastebasket

and knew we’d both grow from this.

*****

#123: "Solstice" by Richard Foerster

~This poem was previously published in Beloit Poetry Journal (2012).

  

Solstice

how quick the plummet : moon-sharp

the flint-sparked air : our river crackling

on the full extreme of the tide : how pristine

this burden : snow coiled like a widow’s shawl

about the shoulders of the world : how

numbly we face this whiteness : its weather-worn

scars : our fading trajectories : like scavenging

deer : and into it all this rodent-thought

creeps its way out of troubled sleep :

a crosshatch of tunnels : vascular runs

where hunger follows blindly on hunger :

gnaws every tender tendrilling : brutal

and indifferent : like beauty : like this night’s

shimmered desolations : like a body : blanketed

yet beneath : so nakedly vulnerable :

how inexorable these silent turnings : as one

from a window : back toward the darkened room :

and returning : the thought : of you : downed in sleep :

as the tide of a sudden snaps the solid mask of things ::

how quick the widdershins flesh tinders into flame.

*****

#122: "Home for the Funeral: a pantoum" by Lita A. Kurth

  

~This poem was previously published in The Santa Clara Review (1991).

Home for the Funeral: a pantoum

Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy

I have to go to a place where I can't stand to go.

God, give me strength.  Aunt Mary, give me whiskey

I can't stand the heat.

I have to go to a place where I can't stand to go.

The storm is herding us to a horrible end

I can't stand the heat.

Let's drive on and on till we are past it.

The storm is herding us to a horrible end

We can't bear it.

Let's drive on and on till we are past it.

We must have wine before we go.

We can't bear it.

We can't stand the heat

We must have wine before we go.

Aunt Mary doles out the whiskey

We can't stand the heat

In her charity she includes a valium from her private reserve.

Aunt Mary doles out the whiskey

The kitchen is gold as we come up the back path in the dark.

In her charity she includes a valium from her private reserve

Our days are like an evening shadow.

The kitchen is gold as we come up the back path in the dark.

We wither away like grass.

Our days are like an evening shadow.

What are all these people doing here?

We wither away like grass.

I cry in front of all of them.  I have to.

What are all these people doing here?

"Was that fifty or a hundred, Shirley?- the money you got for the body?"

I cry in front of all of them.  I have to.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Was that fifty or a hundred, Shirley?- the money you got for the body?"

"And Uncle Ole sent those pretty flowers.”

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"That must have cost a pretty penny."

"And Uncle Ole sent those pretty flowers."

They will perish but thou must endure.

"That must have cost a pretty penny."

Let this be recorded for generations to come.

They will perish but thou must endure.

(Shut up, Grandma, shut up, shut up.)

Let this be recorded for generations to come.

"Boy, crying really takes the pounds off."

(Shut up, Grandma, shut up, shut up.)

Am I a God at hand? saith the Lord.

"Boy, crying really takes the pounds off."

Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth?

Am I a God at hand? saith the Lord.

"Aunt Josie said I was probably suffering the most."

Where wast thou when I laid the foundations of the earth?

"Why should you have his diary?  I gave it to him in the first place."

"Aunt Josie said I was probably suffering the most."

No thought can be withholden from thee.

"Why should you have his diary?  I gave it to him in the first place."

The earth is the Lord's and the fullness thereof.

No thought can be withholden from thee.

He came back and started rocking the rocking-chair right where he used to sit.

The earth is the Lord's and the fullness thereof.

Joy got sent home because she started stapling her hand.

He came back and started rocking the rocking-chair right where he used to sit.

"That's one less present to buy."

Joy got sent home because she started stapling her hand.

"What was it? Delinquent diabetes?  No, juvenile diabetes."

Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy

God, give me strength.  Aunt Mary, give me whiskey

  

*****

#121: "Ahmed" by Ihab Hassan

~This story was previously published in Chelsea (2006).

Ahmed was happy when I first met him; only gradually the sweetness in his smile drained.  Sweetness?  He held it back, as some Egyptians do, history trampling on their lives.  Slight, elfin—or was it ferret-like?—he had long, black eyelashes, genetic memories of desert storms and pitiless light.  So, what was Ahmed doing in New Zealand, the Land of the Long White Cloud? 

                                                                        *

I was staying at the Auckland Hilton, a white, angular structure jutting out from Princes Wharf, like a cruise ship that never departs. 

Good morning, sir, where shall I put the tray?  Those were Ahmed’s first words, spoken in labial English.

I pointed to a table by the window—it was all I could manage.  An interminable flight from San Francisco had erased two Greenwich Meridian days from my life, and I felt both drowsy and jaggedly awake.  But I would have a week to recover—I consulted for a manufacturer of plastic hulls, specializing in sloops, all expenses paid—during which I would breakfast in my room every morning, high in the hotel’s gleaming prow, watching the ferries glide in and out of Waitemata Harbour. 

#120: Three Poems by Lynne Thompson

~This poem was previously published in ArtLife  (2005).

A Famble

If you listen, you will find me

between tomorrow

and a dream-hole.

I’ve heard all about you:

your devil-shine, your heart-

spoon and your farbuden

and I’m waiting for you

in the darkened flesh-spade

where farlies flurch on a copesmate

just beyond the smoors.

I’m waiting for you to remove

my frample & muddle, my murlimews

& pulpatoons.  Look, I’m no paranymph

and this is no beautrap

but I know a gandermooner when I see one!

Relax your half-marrow

and turn your countenance to the twatterlight.

I am framp on this light-bed—frike-lusty

for your mally-brinch.  Come here

my belly-friend, my lusty-gallant, let’s

brustle and fream, let’s ablude our fleshment

on this sweet care-cloth.

*****