The Letters We'll Write When We're Dead by Heather Schimel
Dear Portsmouth, washing machine, unused postcard -
dear chain gangs and turning the volume up instead
of down -
the weather is here, wish you were ugly. Wish
you were four-laned. The weather is brakeless and
careening. The weather has mouths to feed and
Food Stamps to use and bodies to use
as crop dusters. And the winning lottery ticket tonight
is thinning mist, right before you hit a tree. Right before
you sober and sob,
ATMs flying everywhere and forgetting your pin number.
The weather is throwing out your envelopes, your
stationary, leaving you with just tiny spaces to write
the apologies. Of course,
we are left with edges of receipts to explain
ourselves, with lumps in our throats and
breasts and colons. We are left with spaces
on our shoulders with tattoos of birds
that never meant anything, we just wanted you to
love us, love their purple heads and
wings.
I wish you were in Taos when I was in Taos, we
could have broke bread or heads or fingers together.
I wish you were in Cripple Creek when I was, petting
burros and playing blackjack. Picking up donkeys,
bringing them back to my hotel room, waking up alone.
I wish you heard the sounds of Belen, whooping cranes.
I wish you had asked me what the loudest bird in
North America was. I wish you were in Red River,
touching snow, sighing, saying male photographers
are the same as male birds. I wish you were ugly,
had a longer lens that caught it all.
Dear strut and flap of Colorado, dear and darling
nests, dear fence we missed, hit the flagpole instead,
tires squealing God Bless America!
Deer from five minutes ago, in our headlights,
but smart enough to run.
7,107 by William Soule
Rain rattles like rice grain
Across the roof of palm leaves.
Thunder as thick as the air
Vibrates the hut-walls; Grandma warns
That witches are cackling again.
Mountains tower like forest-back behemoths,
Protecting the jewels of fish that align
The space between each island-a diamond ring
We could afford, shimmering on each finger.
The naked children bathe the next day
After the witches are silent. The river:
A friend of the people; Grandpa taught respect
Of the land, the giver of crops, swine,
And fresh water cascading down the mountain
That protects us; police were for mainland Manila.
School is a bike-ride away; Uncle, on his rusty one-gear,
Takes me everyday, promising a future: a buffet
We learn American's have-of food and opportunity;
The teacher (as white as chalk) shows me puppet hands
From the brown paper bags that house my stir-fry.
After school: an evening spent chasing chickens
And watching Mother climb the trees for coconuts;
Father-from the Army-doesn't approve, but loves
The rice cakes that simmered in their milk.
Fresh-caught fish sizzle on the open fires
While the neighbors all congregate; acoustic
Guitars hum against the ocean's rhythm,
Evoking the drunken dance steps and silhouettes
Against the setting sun. Auntie gave the wettest kisses,
Pinching my cheeks and wishing me goodnight.
Cousins dot the floors, full from the pork adobo;
The peppercorns still sting my mouth. Yawning,
I wedge myself into a corner, using a tan leg
As a pillow and dream of tomorrow's salu-salo:
More cheap beer, dancing, and Mother's halo-halo.
Cup of Tea Promise by Becca Turney
It all starts
with cup of tea promises,
watered down lies,
and coffee depression.
When we've taken our breath;
inhaled the aroma of the mug
and accepted what we find,
we drink--
to our own distaste
our own dissatisfaction.
Yet between bitter sips
warmed chest;
clutched hands,
we sit in comfort of the liquid--
as if the elixir of life itself
snuck into the drink.
Despite broken cups,
with cracks and chips
we hold to the tea dependently;
take comfort
and smile.
Writing by Candlelight by Rhys Lawson
Kissing in the dark,
Feeling for the correct change,
Swimming at night in the tranquil seas,
Pacing in a shuttered room,
Walking barefoot in winter,
Wriggling between the bed sheets,
Shouting from a mountaintop,
Crying for a stranger…
I have not written by candlelight for some time.
The Shaping of Clouds by Rebecca Rourke Mooney
This room is not at all like the packed cars of the Metro-North on Friday,
each seat a purpose
some eyes looking forward, facing others looking back.
Instead
our eyes dissolve the chalkboard
one another
the underage bar fight a week ago yesterday
tiny cuts on our soles
that came from daring to walk barefoot
in the alley.
This room can be understood
only in terms of potentiality, like ratios and gambling,
and our worried hands are uncertain and
fear we might lose it all
if we dare
to lay our hearts like heavy bets
on the felt.
You say teaching is impossible when the thick curtain of world
shrouds eyes in dark realism,
or when the placid puddle of boredom
sends minds for long walks in irrelevant fields of celebrity
of lame heartbreak blind to rebirth, evolution, forgiveness
and the future.
But aren't we all bare hearts when the flesh falls to the floor?
And isn't every soul, no matter how cracked and brittle or
absolutely concrete without any hint of abstraction or mystery—yes,
isn't every soul a cloud drifting
ready to take shape
whichever way the wind blows?