Sixfold Poetry Winter 2016 Read online

  crawling past the shadows into snow.

  Like a Bit of Harp and a Far Off Twinkle

  I’m told it happens all the time

  in Heaven after the parades pass—our hands

  sucked up into prayer, our organs

  opened or replaced. That’s where

  the music comes from—not harps,

  but all that living caked up inside us

  cut out and torched each morning.

  The newbies enter freshly scorched,

  not knowing yet that rapture means

  a careful and eternal incineration.

  Even in Heaven, death is routine.

  As here, where the sun dries us out.

  Where we smoke too much and

  lose our voices and our fathers

  lose themselves

  one popped cell at a time

  where we wrinkle and burn

  and scream and cut ourselves

  out of ourselves—half wild half nothing—

  and all the knives and gas and radiation

  ever do is simmer against the edges

  of each fresh day as we smolder.

  Those Tooth-Bright Lights Ahead of Us

  From something sharp in us, our eyes water.

  Our mouths open, our throats quake

  a few cracked sentences to keep

  these flimsy cities of ours from starving.

  Still, we’re no good

  as singers. What held us is leaving.

  What holds us

  today seems much the same. Lost time,

  old skins, everything slinks away

  until all that’s left is a summer’s eve of fireflies—

  wet nights walking

  through brush, chasing wisps

  to catch a bit of light in our hands

  and crush it—streaking guts

  beneath our eyes, like burst stars;

  killing for a symbol in the night.

  Sam Hersh

  Las Trampas / The Traps

  as if by chance

  you are drawn down a whisper path to a forest cove

  where a strand of vertebrae marks the entrance

  to which crows anticipate trespass

  and there in a hollow

  lie cream-colored catkins

  wild rose hips awash in miner’s lettuce

  oyster mushrooms ripe with maggots

  hazel    buckeye    black oak    bay

  and ways blazed

  by foragers

                                        don’t go there

  even now, amanita ocreata

  destroyer of what was and is

  craves your kiss

                          don’t go

  she will tempt you in twilight

  to kneel on a pillow of death and duff

  and reap overtures of golden chanterelles

                don’t

                                        be still

                                                     very still

  still, you won’t see it coming

  Meme Quarantine

  Remember

  that time when

  I thought outside the box?

  That’s a great question.

  So glad you asked.

  Let me help

  unpack that for you.

  Basically,

  it’s technical, isn’t it!

  Not so fast.

  What he just said, not so much.

  It’s like, truth be told,

  trending now.

  Trust me, you people.

  That said, say no more. Right?

  Black Bread, Rye

  I nearly forgot how sour salt caramel

  crust and crumb can lap the tongue

  or how caraway and wild spikes

  of fennel can seed a grin.

  I hadn’t savored that black bread, rye

  from who knows where

  since butter churned, someway

  south of Houston Street.

  The month after mother died,

  my son baked bread that obeyed gravity,

  my daughter rekindled ancient grains

  and my wife drew back the curtain.

  Winter fell, we took note,

  blindly tasted and closed in,

  on a collision course with an elusive hearth,

  bygone, though not forgotten.

  A good story ends

  with sheaves of wheat or slashes

  that score the surface, living proof,

  maker’s marks.

  We give rise, break bread

  and leave the pointed end

  for someone in particular.

  Do Not Disturb

  Darling, please wait

  until rap rusts out,

  Reali-TV is wrong, gone

  and Cryogenic Relaunch goes 2.0.

  I can wait until euthanasia

  bears your imprimatur

  so don’t be a brick shy

              more rest will do me good.

  Before waking me,

  cue that Bach cantata

  you know, the one

  we played, come Sunday.

  Best wait and wonder where or when

  the here and now became the there and then.

  Going ...

  after David Alpaugh’s double-title form

  Just as I came up

  on the inside

  of a fleet-footed thought

  a honeymoon of a poem

  segued by

  going easy, casual as a coyote

  vanishing at the crossroads

  scribbling something

  it chanced upon

  along these lines, then

  ... Gone

  Margo Jodyne Dills

  Babies and Young Lovers

  Babies and young lovers

  kiss in much the same way.

  Open mouthed

  receiving

  full of love

  and willing to

  take in everything.

  When does the face seal up

  to stop the flow?

  Why do we become guarded,

  judgmental?

  We begin life,

  love

  and lust

  with submission,

  rolling onto our backs,

  exposing the soft flesh of our bellies.

  Then we turn to jade,

  slowly,

  a process that involves

  little murders

  and colored lies.

  We die,

  tightlipped,

  underwhelmed, secrets buried;

  our goodness tied up in old photos,

  winners’ ribbons,

  perfume tainted with age.

  The Fruits of Life

  My skin betrays me in its apathetic rage

  While I face my future with a sense of doom

  I cannot deny although I detest my age,

  I’ll hold beyond arm’s length the sight of tomb;

  Though witness conceited youth with heaving sighs

  And those I nurtured at now withered breast,

  Weary sit with elbows propped on tired thighs;

  Watch while autumn sun drops in the west.

  Some think and perhaps are right that I am mad

  But I think suffer from a simple case of blues;

  Cast away all things laced, buttoned and plaid,

  Shuffle to meet you in my orthopedic shoes.

  Make one thing clear, Ponce de Leon must not fail

  To send me drops of elixir in the mail.

  Bouts-Rimes constructed as a Shakespearean sonnet, anagrammatically using Frost’s The Silken Tent.

  I Am White

  I am white.

  You are also whi
te.

  But you have a palette of colors I do not have.

  We all come from Mother Africa but you have precise genes to document your claim. Mine have been washed away over decades, centuries, travels and time.

  Danish butter rolls through our veins, you and me, and you have Norwegian, making you more of a Viking than I.

  Your skin is the color of honey . . . well made bread . . . fine sand, ground to softness by tides controlled by the moon.

  My skin is old now but when I was younger, it was taut and inflexible. Now it gives you something to tease me with.

  You were born blue. Your eyes were black like the depths of an underworld cave, and sparkling like an ancient fire. You turned pink within moments of your arrival and later began to take on the tone of an Egyptian Queen.

  We are Cherokee, you a little more than I, making you braver, more stealthy and able to lean into the wind.

  We are French, English and maybe a wee Irish and German. We are many hues.

  In our bones, we have the ability to break chains, sail tall ships, write ghazals of love, wipe tears off the face of defeat, leap in the name of victory, count stars and follow comets.

  We are connected, like a fragile feather to a mighty wing.

  We are the threads of a tapestry and we are here to protect the colors.

  For Mila Simone

  I Saw a Friend of Yours Today

  I saw a friend of yours today;

  He called to me across the way.

  He doesn’t know my real name

  But I answered just the same.

  It wasn’t ’til I walked away

  That I thought of what to say.

  Isn’t that the way it goes?

  When caught up in surprise hellos.

  I wonder: what with good intention

  If he will think to mention

  That he saw your old friend today

  And called out across the way.

  You’ll know it’s truly me he saw.

  He said my name with his usual awe;

  The cryptic name that you once used

  So you couldn’t be accused

  Of knowing what I’m really called

  That was simply not allowed.

  I could have said to say hello

  But then I thought of long ago;

  The way in which we said goodbye,

  And so it was I could not lie.

  Goodwill greetings I could not send

  Brought to you innocently by your friend.

  Let him say he called my name

  And then perhaps he’ll also claim

  That I am well and looked good, too

  And did not say hello to you.

  The Secret Life of Jasmin García Guadalupe

  Halfway down the steps close to the church

  behind the mercería

  where she bought thread in late afternoon

  after she tells papi her stockings need mending,

  Jasmin García Guadalupe

  spreads her skirt into a fan,

  folds it across her behind

  first left, then right,

  this for a little cushion

  keeps her tender skin

  from the dusty, cracked cement.

  Her lips gather the corner of one small plastic bag

  filled with water, nectar, jarabe,

  sucks like a baby.

  Leans her cheek on warm rough wall

  watches buses rumble below,

  going places she will never know.

  Jasmin García Guadalupe

  dreams of a seat

  in the window

  of the big blue bus . . .

  Jesus painted on the back

  arms spread wide

  oversized palms

  with rusty centers.

  Jasmin would say

  if anyone asked her

  that the Bus Jesus says

  “Why follow me?”

  eyes rolled up to heaven

  oily black smoke blowing out his feet.

  Lovers steal kisses in shadows;

  Señora Diego leans out her window, pulls at her moustache;

  niños plucking mangos over a broken fence . . .

  juice runs down their chins, between fingers,

  laughing, cussing, shoving, “Ánimo!”

  Ignacio makes the knees of Jasmin García Guadalupe tremble;

  bent weary, he comes up the stairs,

  work shirt thrown over shoulder

  dangling from wiry hanger

  he keeps it spotless ’til he gets to the sizzling café.

  Ignacio’s undershirt with soaking armpits

  so white the sun lives in it.

  He comes to where the girl sits

  whose father would like to kill him

  and stops to find his breath.

  “You are the delicious peach.

  I think to sink my teeth into your skin.

  I think to lick your seed.”

  Ignacio passes,

  Jasmin shivers,

  church bells clang.

  Nicole Anania

  In Secret

  My mother ran her fingers through my hair,

  fever coating my cheeks, sweat beads at my hairline.

  She dispensed cough drops and bandaids,

  a cool hand against my forehead.

  She was an open pair of arms,

  a soft chest to bury my face in.

  If she cried it was in secret,

  in the early predawn hours,

  as we slept in twin beds.

  Behind the closed bathroom door,

  beneath the roar of the toilet.

  If she cried it was alone,

  in the small moments,

  between drop and pick up,

  homework and dinner,

  laundry and dishes.

  Now my mother cries in the supermarket

  between the aisles of canned soup and bathroom cleaner.

  I stroke the hair she carefully arranges,

  trying to hide its precipitous loss.

  But still, slivers of white scalp cut through,

  like thin fish in a dark river.

  Her back curves, arms swinging down too heavy to lift.

  I dispense cautious massages and little pills.

  I help her undress,

  slight movements making her shudder.

  If I cry it is in secret.

  If I cry, it is alone.

  I watch her chest rise and fall,

  wondering when we switched places.

  Never admitting,

  I wish we could switch back.

  Meat

  Your skin is usually the color of roasted leather,

  rawhide left to bake in the sun.

  But suddenly the light switches off,

  the soft husk sapped of its warmth.

  Your small, sweet gut disappears,

  your stomach flat and sallow.

  The weight falls away,

  an insidious symptom we only notice,

  once the sharp lines of your skull

  jut out, like mountain ridges.

  Check the gums.

  The computer screen glows,

  white rectangles reflected in my pupils.

  Pale gums spell doom.

  Blood trickling somewhere,

  incessant and slow,

  a leak in the basement.

  You clutch your side,

  violent spasms twisting

  your shrivelled face.

  When they find it,

  a mass hunkered down inside you,

  silently expanding,

  I imagine cells black and toxic

  multiplying,

  until you are filled with a vile tar.

  The hospital is filled with an assault of smells.

  Soiled bed sheets and dry meatloaf

  linger below antiseptic and clean air

  pumped through the building,

  trying to cover up the sweet decay
<
br />   of fresh flowers and inert bodies.

  You are a twisted line in the stiff white bed,

  and you nod towards a styrofoam cup

  filled with tepid water

  and a floating green sponge.

  You are not allowed to swallow,

  so I place the wet sponge

  on your eager tongue,

  watch you bat it around

  your dusty mouth.

  I am reminded of the horses at the petting zoo,

  their long gummy tongues

  maneuvering sugar cubes from my hands.

  Pain wracks your skeletal frame and I think,

  you are only flesh and bone,

  a hunk of meat rotting away.

  To the Dying Man’s Daughter

  When the chaplain enters the room

  resist the urge to speak in tongues.

  Resist the urge to ask him

  where the fuck his God went.

  Instead, let him place his broad palm

  on your father’s clammy forehead.

  Let the soft, murmured words

  cradle him to sleep.

  Accept that this stooped stranger

  is cutting up his veins,

  pouring life into the vessel,

  attempting resurrection.

  Take in the blinding white collar

  against the blackened cloth.

  Think of a moving metaphor,

  and write a useless poem.

  When your cautious friends call you,

  do not let your pain twist

  into red-hot roiling rage.

  Do not swallow their support,

  like rotted fruit

  you are trying to keep down.

  In fact,

  do not answer the phone at all.

  When the morphine starts to do its job

  and his burdened breath begins to slow,

  do not think of when he carried you

  on his sturdy, mountain shoulders,

  of airplane rides on sunken couches

  his smile widening below.

  Do not think of playing catch

  when the sunset turned him golden,

  of painting birdhouses in summer

  of the thin hand you are holding.

  Do not think of long car rides

  the wind blowing back your hair,

  of cigarette smoke and chewing gum

  the future far and fleeting.

  Do not think of falling asleep

  in the crook of his arm,

  of feeling safe and sure and loved

  of how it’s all gone.

  If you think of all those things

  you will be crying too hard

  and you will forget to kiss him,