Timothy Black - Kathryn Jacobs
Claudia Lamar - Peter Marra
Tanya Lyn Willard
Poetry Masala
Timothy Black
The Moth Eater
She takes them in handfuls,
quiet as stone ghosts
beneath her parent’s window,
by the weedy garden
so moist it harbors ugly slugs
and clear-shelled snails.
Parts her lips, invites the dusty
cloth in, pretends there is no
juice, no popping of bodies,
only dust which turns to paste
and runs in chalky rivulets
down her pretty chin.
Above her an epidemic of light,
too warm to be sun,
too immediately misunderstood
to be of any use to her at all.
I Hold a Dead Flicker and Its Neck Rolls, Broken
What is the water content of your eye? Glaze black
and drawing flies from the crumple of a bread sack,
glue-stuck to the bottom of our trash can: It resides
unentombed not breathing, no respiration,
window smacked it down. I hold it aloft by the wings,
spread out like an angel. Feel awkward, don’t want
anyone to see. Want it gone. Mother-in-law says
there are numerous suicides by glass at her place,
a weekly occurrence. I won’t discuss matters of the heart
here—my concern is shallow: I have to call it “her” and “she”
not just “it” anymore. She has wonderful spots on her belly.
What’s the water content of her eye? Where does that water go?
Does it fill with rust? My son’s fish leapt from its heavy glass bowl,
died alone, sucked dust on linoleum. My son was heartbroken.
Life? Let me pontificate:
I step out of the post office and smell vanilla.
Only a woman can have this kind of scent.
I must look worried as I wonder
who it comes from. I check the license plates
and there is one from New Hampshire.
If life is a struck match, shouldn’t I smell
sulfur and black wood instead of a woman?
And if death is a match that is burned out,
shouldn’t she smell of hot, wet leather
instead of what she is—liquefying, drawing flies
more persistent than rigor mortis?
Pi Picks a Flower
The little girl lives
in Rock River, Albany County,
Wyoming, North America, North
Hemisphere by Western Hemisphere,
planet Earth, Milky Way nestled
inconspicuously within an unnamed
universe that is constantly expanding
into nothing but infinite creation.
She picks a yellow flower
and gives it to a boy
with a broken tooth.
Kathryn Jacobs
Little Kathryn takes the Podium
My mother: well, she likes dichotomies
like “love” and “raisin toast.” Or possibly
she jumps around a lot. For certain though,
she started off by focusing on toast.
And then she got distracted: scooped me up
and covers me with kisses. Which I like.
But if she'd just make toast, I could provide
the kisses in between. In fact, I tried
to say as much. But she can't listen yet.
I have to sit here, hungry.
But at least
I'm studying the way my mother thinks.
Because somebody's got to. Yesterday
for instance she was fretful; short on sleep.
And when she's like that, she can't auto-play,
so I suggested Whoosh. It's one she likes;
she always gets excited. But “More Whoosh” –
I guess it was beyond her. So today
I kept it simple: tugging on her dress
and pointing at it: “bread.”
Though even then
she's so confused, it's really worrisome.
I pat her, and I reinforce her words,
and then she calls me “egg.” Now, I've seen eggs:
they're yellow, and she likes them all mashed up,
although her teeth are perfect. And I know
that parents are imaginative, so
it scares me when she smiles, and says “good egg”
and looks right at me, like I'm edible.
I'm really trying, kids, but I'm afraid
I've got a slow one. Patience? Yes, I know –
For Pete’s Sake, Wake this Man
A solid lump of sleep coagulates
like turkey gravy; you’re the leftover.
Delicious looking, though. I’m peering in –
just to make sure you’re breathing, understand –
except you look immensely cuddle-y,
so I suspect I shouldn’t.
Warm him up?
There’s no point wasting any, after all.
Look at those meaty limbs – what you can see
through all that jellied slumber. Somebody
left him unfinished, dripping off the bed
like something out of Dali
(Give me one).
But no, I’m not invited. Darn that sleep,
it must be made of concrete. There’s the sheet
left open like a napkin, and the man
unwrapped, untasted – yet oblivious:
embedded in his dreams like Styrofoam –
For a Daughter, Bright and Beautiful
Bionic butterfly – part stainless steel,
part stretch-net: my determined gossamer.
Frail bones (which I find worrisome) – but then
that sort of goes with exoskeleton.
Accessible; I pray for hardening
(please, Bill Me for the upgrade. Turtle-shell?)
Those wings, though. Web-veined, silver filament
that you could almost blow through; cilia –
but stainless, every fiber, weapon-grade.
Which changes nothing, sometimes. Butterflies
will change direction: zig-zag, flower-drawn.
And this one’s no exception. Well, except
I’ve seen her hail-caught. Same old fluttering –
but folks, she don’t break easy.
Claudia Lamar
Spinster
I am standing in the checkout line,
buying a quart of milk,
my only fear being that I will not drink it all,
before it expires
In the beginning stars were more honest
In the beginning stars were more honest. This was before we started pointing at them and asking for wishes. Before they knew anything of worship or of falling.
Sometimes a star tries so hard to be bright, that it kills itself.
Maculomancy: divination from the shape & placement of birthmarks
The placement of your birthmark tells the story of how you died in your past life.
Oh, really? Mine is on my neck.
You must have been hanged. Maybe you were a witch.
Or maybe I killed myself, like for love or something.
Witches & lovers are the same thing. They both manipulate what you believe in & call it magic.
Peter Marra
black stars
split film / split figure
they walked slowly along the beach.
flickering humans clutching at the black stars
licking their fingers and hunger isn’t sated.
bruised and laughing
clothed in stains
and thirst isn’t quenched.
men carrying knives walk through the shallow water
the women left a long time ago
they are at home resting
their yellow eyes hover
under flickering eyelids, sweaty in bed
dreaming in the cool air
from the rusty electric fans
and dreaming. watching the movie screen
of flickering humans clutching at the black stars
Crush
Cardboard wall
with a face pressed against it,
A little to the left.
She removed her face
from the surface and looked
at the imprint.
The face smiled back.
They never made her so happy
And the time tunnel
was waiting for her.
Captain Scarlet laughed forever,
holding her breasts to his chest
They held hands and went for a walk before flying away
The chase, the cornering, the execution.
This isn’t a sport just a matter of cleansing.
Tanya Lyn Willard
Blood Orange:
an object poem
I peel apart your skin
exposing a virgin universe
of untouched wines and channels of red.
Soft linen center,
cotton white taste,
bitter on my tongue
Every pulp puzzled and
placed in pure symmetry.
I wont devour you.
I'll burrow inside.
So delicate
your acid cleanses me.
Hem me in
to your most intimate parts.
By day I'll explore every silky, skin-covered crevice.
Pulp-by-pulp, burst by burst.
I'll rest in your soft cushion core at night.
Sticks and Bones
from The Free Sun, a biographical sketch of a Sudanese woman
My husband and my sons
sit around the fire
looking, hungry, at me.
They can cook for themselves
if they’re so strong.
But they saw her too.
Like all the other little girls
who went to school that morning,
chained tightly against each other
while men on horseback
sent them up as smoke
into the sky
my daughter called to her mother
as I roared from outside.
The tip of one
of her fingers.
remained whole,
unlike everything else
brought down to the bone.
Before her breasts
had time to grow.
Before she could have sons
or daughters of her own.
I am not
just one or two
clean breaks trying to mend,
I am shattered bone under skin:
one who won’t heal.
I didn’t know her body
could melt like that.
Then the men come for me
and honor does not permit
me to say what has happened
but my husband knows
and with my sons he leaves.
So the shame is
too hot for him?
I burn
these sticks now
as dark sets against day.
The smoke and dust
hold cold blue
inside them as
they pass through
the flames.
I scream
and tear my hand
from the fire.
I scream
and I want
to pull the fire
all over me.
No one will look at me.
Inside
where I burn
and I choke
alone,
inside,
I want to scrape
myself clean.
He Lets Me Pass
from The Free Sun, a biographical sketch of a Sudanese woman
There is no distance
between dust
and faded blue sky.
First the sun pales
it in heat.
Then heat dries dirt and
dusts it higher than
the horizon is far.
I cover my skin in cloth
to hide from the sun.
Head to toe I’m covered and
still I burn.
Still my mouth dries.
The sun hung high has nothing
to run from,
escapes nothing.
Comes and goes
unlike my sweat
which has long run out.
Escaped from me,
like my strength,
and wont come back.
The footsteps beside me
are becoming silent in my ears
Where once I heard
the sinking sound of twelve
feet beside me, now I barely
hear two.
The others left like
my sweat and my strength.
Now all I hear is my breath.
Soon,
I don’t even hear that sound.
But I’m alive because
my feet are still sinking
with each step
in the sand.
She carries her baby beside me,
hides him
close to her breasts.
Her milk has left
like my sweat.
Still the sun sets
and we bathe in
the night air.
Soon
we will have survived.
I ran from Sudan,
going to Israel.
I met six others on the way
and we walked for days.
I don’t remember
when the others
died.
I wonder if they
were as thirsty as I am
when they sank their last steps
into the dry sand
under the free sun.
Soon.
Soon.
I’ll just listen
to my breath,
keep taking
one more step
under the sun
that doesn’t hide.
We reach the border.
And have to
sneak over.
A thin wire and
some sticks:
not even a gate.
I can see Israel,
a few steps away.
I step over
then I stop.
A rumbling sound
comes to a halt.
A man with a gun
in wet hands yells.
He stands
sweating in uniform.
He says “no.”
and I don’t understand.
I don’t have spit enough
to respond.
“Step back,” he says.
And I say “no.”
I walk to the wire.
“Step back!”
I hear two footsteps
beside me, running.
Boom
like a fire’s
quick roar.
A baby cries
from farther away.
I stick
one more step
in the sand.
Then he lets me pass
away from Egypt,
away from Israel,
and from Sudan.
I hear the sound
of one last
gunshot breath
and he lets me pass
away.