and closes his eyes to sleep—
and then the lovers closed their eyes
to kiss; and then the river closed its eyes
to flow; and then the clouds closed their eyes
and began to rain; and then the moon closed her eyes
and disappeared into the night.)
Franklin Zawacki
Experience Before Memory
Step slowly, carefully,
until you feel the fog between the trees.
Hear the heartbeat of air.
Let the ground open beneath you
and grant you forever to walk the first step.
Freedom is brief: watch smoke disappear.
Even with the best of wines
the second sip drowns the first.
Lacking An Easel
The compulsion to capture two children
geysering up and down on a seesaw—
balancing precariously on the air—overwhelms me.
If only I were an artist able to quick-sketch the silos
wobbling behind them
or draw the wheat field shrinking to stubble
beneath their feet.
Or paint the color of their squeals.
The boy reaches for a rooftop,
straddling the wood shed
with red and blue shouts.
The girl lifts bare legs—
shrieking purple cries
at the puddle drawing closer.
Two children divide the light—
each rising and falling with exultant yelps
that swoop like swallows into the hay loft.
But the exuberance of such a vision
can never be painted but only kissed.
And I’d rather savor it,
keeping my hands free to catch them
should one of them fall.
Leaves Beyond Glass
For Peter Kaplan (1957-1977)
Father: open the windows before the trees go bare,
before the lawn is raked clean,
and one misstep buries me in mud.
Bring back the green leaves surrounding my boyhood.
Let me trot beside you,
two steps to your one.
My hand grips your finger,
as we trundle down streets,
pulling a wagon full of brothers.
I feel your chin when you bend down
to sort the bottle caps from the coins
I pull from my pockets.
Shining back from counter glass,
your eyes meet mine
above the pyramid of ice cream numbing my tongue.
Unable to look away, I’m lost in your reflection.
Confined by illness, I lay quarantined in your tattered robe,
gazing out while you frosted cartoons
to the outer side of my bedroom window.
You stood in the cold, arching your eye brows—miming laughter—
meant to carry me past all confinements.
Hearing you whistle around corners,
I came running.
I know you can’t remove this sickness.
But lift me once more toward the ceiling
that appeared only an arm’s length away
before I fall back—
entombed in the silence of this stale room.
Spring
That well-spent hag was hardly awake
before—with a toss of her hair—
she changed beds.
Stealing the moon’s protrusion,
she padded out her hips.
She filled out her flat bosom with green buds.
Crossing over the swollen creek, she trampled the lilies.
She squeezed blossoms over her body,
feigning a bath with perfume.
A breeze dried her clean.
Strapping on spiked heels,
she gave the turf its course.
Seed spilled everywhere.
But you’ve gotta hand it to her—
the old bitch.
Look at those meadows rise!
Short Orders
It’s 2 a.m.
I stumble into a diner.
Bubbly-mouthed coffee pots attempt
to steam open the tight-lipped night.
I find an empty booth.
I’m not talking.
A waitress appears, hovering like an angel.
She turns her face away,
allowing me to stare at the back of her legs.
I want to thank her.
I signal for her pencil. She hands it to me.
I trace our lives on a napkin.
“Look, buddy. You’ll need more than astrological signs
to get me into bed.”
I open my jacket.
“Who do ya think you are? Pull down your shirt.
I’ve seen better tattoos on a dog’s ass.”
The food counter bell clangs.
“I’ll be back when you’re ready ta order.”
I lick salt from the back of my hand.
“Hey! You givin’ da girl trouble?”
I look up. The cook stands over me.
“Yeah. You. Don’t act dumb. You can talk.
Now give her back her pencil. She’s got work to do.”
I hand it over, surrendering my tongue.
A drunken man and woman in rumpled wedding clothes
flop down in the next booth.
“Would you believe,” the bride slurs, “I was going to be a nun?”
She looks around to see if anyone else is listening.
“Here’s your eggs and Johnny cakes.”
The cook bangs down my plate.
“Ya got syrup and whatever else ya need on da rack.
So no more lip outta youse.”
The bride winks at me.
“Hey, sweetie,” she whispers. “You’d better be careful.
Cupid might be lurkin’ closer than you think.
Look: I’ve still got my garter on.”
She bares her thigh and giggles.
“Whata ya say? Wanna try for it?”
The groom weaves as he wags a finger at me.
I shrug my shoulders and turn away.
It almost seems the coffee darkens
the more I add cream to it.
Tracy Pitts
Stroke
the ants in the carpet have climbed
onto her head and onto the jars of strawberry preserves
green beans she’d snapped on the back porch
have spilt into the sink from water still filling the bowl
the oven burns doughnuts she was making from buttermilk biscuits
down to six rings of charred bread
the boys are with their granddad at Bull Lake taking
turns holding the golf ball he cut out from a snake’s belly
the snake must have thought it had swallowed an egg
the smoke needs more time to fill the house
Stray
I wrap live caterpillars
in corn husks
to feed them to the cows
and follow Pa
to the chicken coop
to watch his hands get pecked
while retrieving eggs
but hide in the truck
when he’s outside
combing underneath the house
with a rake and towel
for a litter of strays
to drown
in the pasture
in the tub
where I was baptized
Below
Underneath each hyacinth is a cat
She digs the graves on her own
The nursery will not charge her for the bulbs
Two were pronounced dead in the same week
Plant two and plant three
A fifth plant will show this spring
She doesn’t like children much or her eldest sister
r /> She remembers her Mother helping them bury
a squirrel that bit her when
she was only five, her sister nine
It was sick and not safe to pet
They all agreed to forgive the rodent
after returning from the emergency room
Together, the three of them sprinkled
the animal with rosemary, thyme, and lavender
then returned it to the earth
“That wasn’t so bad,” she says,
staring into her garden, eating a can
of pork and beans from a crystal flue
Brother
hear.
those feet over the road
arched and bent the snap of thimble muscle
lifts you like a squall of ink
that
great old mouth clicks
wet with ancient hunger and parable
charged with rain and famine
don’t caw at my share, brother
you were the last silhouette off the bough
for this downed meal
every bite we
shake with red tinsel between our beaks you
still keep one eye on me
dark, mannequin, inlaid like bad prayer
eat.
The Tomatoes Are Good This Year
we sit like people sit
pray like people in prayer
even talk like people talk
there is new death here we
pass the turkey the dressing
the pie in the second week of october
tell stories swap photos like
factory canners when it’s not
our turn we sharpen new exits
does anyone need anything while
i’m up notice the carpet is still green
after all these years wonder
if that mirror was always at
the end of the hallway the plate
of tomatoes reaches him the him
that will be dead by the real thanksgiving
the tomatoes he grew himself he
removes a slice the first slice removed
from the plate takes a bite a giant
little outburst slips right out he doesn’t
cry long or share the future he catches
it quickly says sorry folks the tomatoes
are just that good
he passes the plate to his
left this time around we all
take one we agree
the tomatoes are good
Rachel A. Girty
Collapse
Like a window left open
Winter after winter, like
A knock on the weathered door
And never a reply, I
Am a ghost town. I swallow
The plains around me,
I clear out warehouses, drive
Even the coyotes from town.
You’re only riding by, just a little
Blue girl on a bike, but
Sickness spreads, and once its enters you,
You can never pull every tendril out.
Radioactive, gleaming with kinesis,
You begin your rapid decay,
Halving and halving, baking in the sun
Until you are nothing but
A wisp of a receipt from the
Drugstore, a dying echo on the concrete
Wall, My bottle cap, my seesaw,
My aluminum clink.
Everything Gets Harder
Everything gets harder: the ground
Packed tight under days of snow, teeth and
Fingertips as winter beats on, scraping itself
Through the gaps in the window frame.
There are holes in us too—the chill
Reaches deep into your lungs and it’s harder
To say exactly what you mean. You open
The refrigerator door, just to see the pop
Of light, the rows and rows of boxes
And bottles. You try to speak and
Your voice drops away. It’s okay—
I’m trying to love you harder.
I mean the things I say now, I clean
The dishes you forget, I stop myself
From waking you when I’m afraid.
There are things we’ll never say
To one another, things we hoard that wedge
Themselves between us when we sleep,
But you’re warmer in the morning.
Things could be a whole lot harder.
I’m Afraid of the Things You Keep
After that night you wouldn’t
Touch peaches for a week.
You said something had happened
In the produce section, in your dream,
A floor full of grease and blunt objects.
In the morning you kept running
Your fingers along my jaw, to make sure
It was still there. I’m sorry about the peaches,
You said. It’s gruesome, you said, blood
And cooking oil don’t mix. I should have
Told you to stop, I should have said that
Dreams aren’t real until you wake up
And you choose to remember. I’m afraid
Of the things you keep: the sound
The sedan made outside our window
The night of the thunderless rain
And the scream of whatever it smashed.
You couldn’t find anything, even standing
In the driveway, soaking in your pajamas.
You carry every day the smell of the clinic
The day you told me you thought you would die
(There was nothing wrong with you at all)
And you’ve memorized the official list
Of ongoing worldwide conflicts. You keep
Imagining me gunned down or gagged up
But this is not a war. You and I
Are safe for now, are warm and loved
But you keep forgetting the days
Spent on windy beaches, the hours
Of firelight and spice-dark tea,
The kind old woman who gave you a nickel
When you came up short at the cider mill,
The minutes when you first fall asleep,
Dreaming nothing, listening, knowing
A word from me can wake you up.
Ryan Flores
Language Without Lies
We resuscitated music,
we rescued it from the icy grip of the cosmos.
It was stillborn, from a cloud of dust in a silent vacuum.
We refined the ancient sequence
of building tension to create resolve.
We defined the colors, the math, the geometry of sound.
Now music is our only language without lies.
Now we’re all playing different parts
of the same song, in which countless beats
of countless hearts provide the rhythm.
Now music is our ghost dance, our communion, a sanctuary
in which we’re all kneeling to kiss the ground,
a temple in which we’re all praying for a miracle.
Music is our echolocation—
a ping bouncing around in the dark,
singing, “I’m here, can you hear me?”
Music penetrates armor
and holds a light up to each and every face,
looking for something honest, something real.
Music makes order out of chaos, makes us feel like
we’re not just spinning around a star,
that’s spinning around a star, that’s spinning around a star.
Music helps us trust our ignorance
as much as our instincts.
Music prepares us for love and loss thereof.
Music aligns us with empathy and gratitude
and defines the lives and times of the human experience.
Music is the human soul thinking out loud.
The Future for t
he Present
We traded the warm Earth
beneath our feet
for designer shoes
on linoleum
fashioned to appear
as natural as stone.
We traded the old growth forest
for posters of athletes and pop stars,
for catalogs and celebrity magazines,
for tables and desks on which to write
checks with which to pay bills.
We traded the benevolent shade
for a well-placed arbor,
the dense undergrowth
for perfectly manicured lawns.
We traded a spring-fed stream
for a stagnant cow-pond,
naps on the riverbanks
for sleeping pills,
a seashell for a cellphone
a library for a TV guide,
a full moon dance
for a fitness center,
candlelight for a lump of coal,
a stable of thoroughbreds
for a barrel of oil,
a ceremony for a simulation.
We traded the winding trail
for the static grid,
a thunderstorm for acid rain,
fresh air for smokestacks
runways and boxcars.
We traded a conversation
for a keypad,
a sunset for a soap opera,
an orchard for a house plant.
We traded wild buffalo
for happy meals,
an ear of corn
for a laboratory,
a corner store
for a corporation.
We traded a hallelujah
and a hug,
for a website and a blog,
rituals for garage door openers,
a community for a computer,
skin for plastic,
landscapes for landfills,
handshakes for handguns,
stars for streetlights,
pyramids and kivas
for office buildings
and strip-malls,
a vision quest
for a universal
remote control.
We traded smooth curvatures
for right angles,
circles for squares,
spheres for boxes,
fenceless horizons
for corners and borders
dollars and flags.
Guess Who?
(an exercise in lateral thinking)
to my mother I am son
to my father I am hijo
to racist hillbillies of the Midwest
I am wetback, spic, and beaner
to cholos at Armijo I am gringo
to officials at the State Department
I need proof of citizenship
to la gente de México I am güero
in the Southwest I am coyote
at the university I am Latino,
Mexican-American and Chicano