WHAT I WISH FOR by Kay Cosgrove
At the party I would stand as a statue, offering guests talking points
about the Roman Ideal and that famous grace.
There is more.
I’d quell ambitions, have the armies stop fighting, ask for less.
I wish someone would put me in a category: patrician, miserable; that I had a baby,
was winged & self-assured, or that Corinth’s art filled my walls, or bookshelves, or lawn.
I wish for our Mediterranean’s return, for perpetual wind, heavier limbs, silence.
All this is not to ignore the stew in the slow cooker, the man napping,
or the horse we keep in a painting on the wall. This bath—
a luxury of Epsom and steam;
these conditions have already been met.
These are the facts: Rome fell before I was born.
It should be enough that I love my hair as a Roman, and that, like a Roman, I am.
There will always be the haunt of possibility and a golden era.
No one will ask to see this list.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: Three Poems by Purvi Shah
THREE POEMS by Purvi Shah
MIRA LONGS TO BE MORE THAN A BRIDE
The sound of your footsteps
is waterfall. Why not thrust
off these bangles then? You
are already music & in your hands, I am
wordless sound in your worldless sound. Note this
concert of veils lifting & fires
crossing. A palanquin came
to witness how my head adorned
by marigold can bow, can summon
deep golden fetters of dawn – how night consorts
with day to disappear, how we alone burn for the fire
of being: we two will know what pulse
clinks our breaths as twins
in a mother’s pouch, both their own
& not own
– our original
unchambered heart.
I shall wear the moon
or your heartbeat
only
around my wrist.
WHEN PROMISE DISAPPEARS, MIRA SPEAKS TO THE THORNS
Sorrow: may you be known
by your other names – black
orchid, a scar burst, a thorn
at your jaw, the underbelly
of true joy.
Sorrow: were you to have a season, should you be
a head lodged against a doe-like shoulder & my bountiful
raven hair? Sorrow: may you fall
between autumn & winter or extreme
beauty & extreme quiet or
extreme bliss & extreme plenty, between
a burnt rose & its thorns –
or ideally between Sunday & Sunday, a day of day deleted. After raptures,
beloved-talk, a smile
in early light, how easy a heart betrays,
how each & every nerve
re-speaks splendors – lost. So we turn
back to the same dilemma, joy more slippery
in the hand & somehow
always
& in each
season sorrow standing
for your shoulder – perched
to draw blood.
HER HANDS ARE A FURNACE
warmed by the light of God or maybe her dark mother
fed her coals for breakfast in youth, hoping
to kindle the child’s black meat into diamond.
Wayfarers scout the country to enclose
her hands, these oracles of heat. She sears
migrants with warm shelter. She simmers
their cold burn with hope, imparts companions.
Her hands are a furnace, he says & shies
away. He wants to lead
her to the coldest chamber in his American home,
envelop her sun-spackled wrists from the homeland
in his brown palms. He seeks
to teach his nerves how warmth is spread.
When he clasps her hands, he too imagines
he is planted on stone floors, underneath a flat
roof, sun puncturing sizzle after monsoon rains.
His palms are soft, uncarved, she discerns. It is not easy being
a holder of heat, a foreigner to fevered belonging.
She curtains her eyes, trained to hide the smoldering.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: The End of Labor by Al Maginnes
THE END OF LABOR by Al Maginnes
I stared through noon-shaded glass to see
how we are measured against our tasks.
My father and other men made sacraments
of sweat, days measured in squares of dirt, lengths
of wood, packets of seed. And tomato plants,
doghouses, leaf piles rose before them. Summoned
to apprenticeship, I labored and dreamed labor’s end,
my small hands once again soft fields.
In a city where I had never been, I had no math
to total the worth of the money in my pocket.
So I passed a woman kneeling on the sidewalk
as if she was a statue, monument to unending want.
Or I handed her all I carried and continued
down an alley echoed by strange words, smells
of fried meat, trees thick with unnamed fruit
bending over stucco walls to shade the ground,
the air cool with the symmetry that once came
after a day of building forms, pouring concrete,
when we turned from work’s closed world
and felt day settle across our shoulders,
our shadows skimming mud our feet dragged through.
In front of a Chinese restaurant, two boys,
skinny in their starched uniforms, faces lashed
by acne, stood with automatic rifles heavy
over their shoulders, protection for tourists
intent on moo shu pork or egg drop soup.
Their hands wove against the air as they talked,
illustrating stories of girls and back alley fights,
motion filled with the careless grace I saw
in the stride of a carpenter returning to work
after lunch, who walked from the elevator
on the unfinished slab of the fifth floor.
Minutes later he forgot to hook his safety line,
leaned back and kept falling, and I saw him
step again from the elevator, a moment
that deepened and widened until it was
something to be held, a coin, a bone
polished to the dull sheen of ivory,
as though a moment could be held inside an object,
sealed by something less changeable than language.
Shadows laid a dark weight across
suddenly unforgiving ground. Breath snarled knots
I knew from working with my father.
The building’s familiar shape held, lights
the shape of tears burning over each empty floor,
leaving us to weigh what we had to give
a job willing to consume us so completely.
Now the curved road into the city bends,
my eyes narrow against the light from buildings
I saw rising under the priestly dominion
of cranes, shadows climbing without language
or thought to gleam like small coins that tumble
into hands that hesitate, then close
to save the counting for later.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: Three Poems by David Winter
THREE POEMS by David Winter
STORYBOARD
We spent her sixteenth, my seventeenth summer perched on a porch, talking out our love
for her man. I had little language. She was luculent. We worked back through wrong things, arriving
before him. Her mouth opened, black as a movie reel—I do not want to project. She storyboards:
her babysitter, ages seven to ten. He tells her not to tell. Years—her body becoming another body—pass.
She tells. There is a trial, but—
She finishes her cigarette. She is not asking questions. I cradle what she offers: a still shot
of suffering’s root, how survival begins with the seed’s rupture, soft flesh pressing through dirt—
these are not her words. I was raped, she says. And she sits, finishing
another cigarette.
Our conversation moves on.
ARCHIVED LIGHT
After Without Sanctuary, a collection of lynching postcards
Neither the number of photos, eighty-one, nor the races inscribed beside—all Black except
the Jew,
a few Italians—but the grain itself grates on my eyes. I came looking for lolling tongues, an
organic
thing cut and weighed for my righteous mouth. Instead, their faces barely break from sepia
night,
half their names absent from the weathered photos. Even the archived light of the one burnt
alive
has lessened. I could walk away, white man that I am. I wouldn’t have to walk far. Embers
flare
and cool in the hearth. I could sweep out the ashes, the teeth and chips of bone. Speak
politely
to our neighbors one more day.
N—
I learned from my mother which words were unspeakable, a lesson my older brother
promptly untaught. Dick. Shit. Fuck. I don’t remember where I first heard the banned word
for blackness, at what age it found its way into my mouth. Perhaps I asked at six, when dad explained
Dr. King and the end of segregation. Maybe not until, as a hirsute sixteen-year-old, I explored the world
with my mouth. Alcohol. Opium. Pussy. Amazing how rarely we white boys heard the word no
after our parents wore its power thin—that syllable paired with a fist or a badge became as precious
as a bag of pills. We baited each other like bears into the liquored dawn. I slurred because I knew
it was not right.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: Self Portrait as Teenaged Boy Beating Swan by Colleen Abel
SELF PORTRAIT AS TEENAGED BOY BEATING SWAN
by Colleen Abel
Sometimes you have enough–
the cob, the pen twining
their necks to hearts,
all that fidelity.
The dank pond by the council
flats, like it’s bloody Windermere.
You only wanted to wreck
that love-shape they were making.
After, you sat, sad Zeus, and held
the one you’d caught,
stroking its feathered throat
as if to make it sing.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: Two Poems by Danez Smith
TWO POEMS by Danez Smith
SLOW TWERK
or how to tame a brushfire
or how you get on his last nerve
& juke on it
or how he breathes while he dreams
of a mouth full
or how the war was won
when you got him limp
or how his eyes shut up
& bottom lip caught ‘tween teeth
or how you spell your name
or how to own his hands
maybe one palming a nipple
or what elastic was made for
or how to see him certain of tongue
& clumsy with his skin
or what makes those nameless muscles
clench, trying to save it for later
or the hymn written across his veins
or how he hopes the world ends
or his favorite kind of Sunday
or when he knew
he’d kill a nigga
for your sway
TWERKING AS A RADICAL ACT OF HEALING
when your song plays, steal your body
back out the gut of that brute/nigga/beast/boy.
sweat the bile off, unlearn the word acid,
dance until the only thing you’re sure of is the ache
in your thighs & your name as a metaphor for steam.
bend your knees because you want to,
not for any god or dirty nails in your shoulder.
go down knowing there is still a sky
to rise towards. give your scars to the strobe lights,
let them wash you in lightning, wait for whatever
kind of salvation a basement brings. twerk
& ain’t that the best prayer?
tonight, you left his ghost at home, left a note
for him to pack his ghost-shit & leave
by the time the sun soars in your honor. honey, you’re here
& that’s it’s own psalm. don’t let nobody look at you
& not know they looking at the risen. this how you write
free all over your bones & for the first time
you know free doesn’t mean how his hands mistook you
for somebody’s water, but how you were made to be
like wind, like a hawk, like a doe mid leap,
like a storm, like a child, like a song.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: The City is a Body Broken by Natalie Scenters-Zapico
THE CITY IS A BODY BROKEN by Natalie Scenters-Zapico
Most days, the light falls so thick
I don’t know what it is to be
without it. At night we lie
in bed away from each other,
the moon so bright it is a scrim
for the sun. When clouds come,
monsoons flood freeways, trap
old tires against barbed wire.
Your body, a victim of erosion,
turns bone. I jump from our chainlink
bridge and only break a foot.
Which of us has become
the natural disaster? In bed, I blame
the fever, the sores that line my mouth.
But it’s my foot that’s swollen. I wrap
it in custom’s forms. Will I ever know
where you hide my money, or
the mountains where I hide your guns?
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: Harbingers by Tory Adkisson
HARBINGERS by Tory Adkisson
There are kettles of vultures
resting on the stove.
Some apple cores
rotting in the trash.
Our home’s a monastery,
kestrels hang
from the ceiling like tiny
bells. You get angry
whenever I ask too many
questions, but my gullet
hangs open, thirsty
for answers.
Every day’s a black hole
with a pinprick of swallow
-tails at its center.
I’m so thirsty for answers,
when they start falling
I’m sure to drown
along with the turkeys.
You know I’m too impatient
to do other
-wise. I disregard
every tender gesture,
every kiss & caress,
dancing in a pirouette
of pink flamingoes, perfectly
en pointe & still reckless.
I don’t regret teaching
you how to hate
in articulated syllables—
when you call me a fucker,
I can’t help but smile
at my own voice parroted back.
If it weren’t for the cudgel
of larks lurking in your iris, I’d
wonder if your darkness
were different than mine.
Day after day of this heart
-ache & still you fly back
to me, puffing up
your chest, ostentatious, pea
-cocked & loaded. You don’t like it
when I burn the dinner,
or spill the tea, when
the porcelain
of my throat’s
too clotted with leaves.
You don’t like that I might
give away the future
if I speak. You never want to know
what’s coming;
you never want to think
about after. You’d rather
drink the future
& just as soon
forget it, whether jasmine
or mint, oolong
or honey. Meanwhile
I’m growing ever more
vestigial & ornery.
There’s just no saving us.
The ravenous woodpeckers
& twittering
sparrows watch from
the safety of the trees. They know
one day someone’s going
to shoot us down & all
this noise, all this rage
we harbor, will mean nothing
when we’re nothing
but a pair of omens
nestled in the dirt, waiting
without wings, to be savaged.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: Autoimmune by Micaela Mascialino
AUTOIMMUNE by Micaela Mascialino
when she hears the word
she pictures a car
crashing into a column her spine
she’s told other words
invasion foreign attack
now missiles are guided
into finger joints
the left elbow a combat zone
like an allergy
to part of yourself
the doctor explains
her knees are sneezing
where she sees a stub
of pale thumb
something in her sees
not-body
she’s a girl inside
of another girl
a whole rejecting
its wholeness
something extra her body
insists keeps swelling
to point out the exact places
here right here
get rid of this
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: Barnstormers by Malik Abduh
TWO POEMS by Traci Brimhall
AFTER WAKING FROM A SEVEN-YEAR DREAM
It comes in my sleep and then it comes up the river,
a tiger shark with its young in its mouth
all singing the same commandment—Thou shalt kiss
thy mistress’ Song of Solomon thighs and belly
and the star tattoo on her left areola. I kiss the pear hanging
between her breasts and every link of the chain
that holds it there. I kiss ghosts in her ears, the ones
who whisper as she enters sleep, that last
wilderness, to escape my wrathful appetites. I tongue
the pillowcase, nibble the headboard, laugh
as I take each pair of panties from her drawer
and treat them to the most abiding pleasures.
I worship the shark until I’m no longer afraid of it,
pull out its teeth, carve my name into confessionals
and bathroom stalls. I kiss the teeth. I kiss my name.
I kiss every woman who accepts my last dream
as payment. We who are about to bind ourselves to trees.
I kiss doorknobs and empty soda bottles, trap
thunder in my mouth and give it to every child
I can catch. We who are about to see God’s wet hair.
I lick cobwebs beneath the saint’s skirt, kiss his legs free
of dust, slander his mortality with my tongue until
I come into the godscape, blind and spitting live flies.
SIBYLLINE TRANSLATION
Emergency, I’ll be your siren. Imagination, I’ll be your figment.
Fiction is one way of knowing. Dreams are another.
Meanwhile, the dead trample the psalmic grass as they line up
to ride bald angels like horses through the graveyard.
Lazarused but not yet rising, their bodies crowd the fence
waiting for news of the hereafter while the undertaker collects
a toll from pallbearers. Blame the congregation tithing
wisdom teeth, or the moon which has been full for weeks.
Lunacy, I’m already yours. I made my truth. Consequence,
I’ll be your whipping girl, your pulled hair and burning nerve.
I will help pry open the oracle’s casket. Out of her
whitening mouth, a bright nothing will aerialize, ascend.
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: The Kiss by Kurt Brown
THE KISS by Kurt Brown
for L.A.
That kiss I failed to give you.
How can you forgive me?
The kiss I would have spent on you is still
there, within me. It will probably die there.
But it will be the last of me to die.
__________
“After Kurt’s passing, I was asked by editors of literary reviews to send poems by him, so that they could publish some of his new work in memoriam. At the same time, Tiger Bark Press asked me for all of Kurt’s poems to start working on a collection entitled: I’ve Come This Far to Say Hello: New and Selected Poems by Kurt Brown. So I very reluctantly went into Kurt’s computer — something I never thought I’d have to do — in search of all those poems. In a file entitled “Almost Poems,” I found about fifty poems in different stages of completion, filed in alphabetical order by title. I read, and read those poems for a long, sad afternoon. Then, under the letter “T”, I found “The Kiss” — written a month and a half before he passed away.” ~ Laure-Anne Bosselaar
Issue 4 Contents NEXT: Could Be Worse by Scott Nadelson