Moon Life, like summer insects hatched to the infinite night only to spend each finite hour fighting to prove the moon lives inside a patio light. How is it that the stars can't outshine the flash of a phone? The cicada buzzing in your pocket is a perpetual panic attack of priorities, a colloquy of petty need that itches like a proboscis tracing skin, keeps your head pitched to the screen even as the moon performs miracles, drags tides in and out, beaches flotsam and jetsam like it’s posting a sale on a discount site, the occasional behemoth bloated on its back, gut filled with plastics it took for real life.

“Like summer insects hatched to the infinite night.” A poem by Adam Beardsworth.

On April 28, I’m reading in Portland (the original one) with Zanne Langlois - 7pm at Double House Arts!

the car is backing up, please pay attention BY XIAO XI TRANSLATED BY YILIN WANG be mindful of the rocks behind you, the tiny blades of grass the roar of thunder, and the flash of lightning. watch out for the sprinting kids and cats for the elderly and the hushed trees. take note of the rotting fruits and of the snow that has just fallen. look out for the ants under your car tires the light reflected on broken glass. be vigilant about rolling leather balls of nails with malicious intentions. observe the sorrowful face in the mist the traps that have lost their lids. pay attention to the hands begging for money. beware of firecrackers on the ground that haven't yet gone of. take heed of the sudden uncontrolled sobs from the roadside.

“Observe the sorrowful face in the mist.” A poem by Xiao Xi, translated by Yilin Wang.

Listening to the White-Throated Sparrow BY JIM PETERSON three held notes keen as a penny whistle the fourth a shimmering tremolo that rides the late glare of the lake then sidles through corridors of birch and maple sliding over the hillside like windblown mist the singer so patient that the silence that follows swells like unfurling fists in the hollow dens and coverts while those four notes stack up in that sturdy flick of a body and then come falling again over these Virginia woods and spines stalling me like a dry leaf that stays afloat but spins and descends the rifts of white water

“The silence that follows swells like unfurling fists.” A poem by Jim Peterson.

RAMPS, SHALLOTS, A POTATO Property isn't theft, it's just property my senses told me. My assets include the hoaxes of the moon. The road to homelessness passes the chaise longue and drips into the cellar, where I tend the roots with my governess—you think she's an artist, but she's an investor. While you scrutinize your tercets I fax my couplets to the gods. We switched our stories as our blood required it. The moon demanded that we steal vhat we have. Onions must be planted before the catastrophe of winter. Odd as it sounds, the vegetables are free.

“My assets include the hoaxes of the moon.” A poem by Sara Nicholson.

Hello, hello! If you’re in DC next Saturday, April 25, why not swing by Rhizome at 7 pm (6950 Maple St NW) to hear me read poetry with Manya Magnus? ❤️

LEVIATHAN Truth also is the pursuit of it: Like happiness, and it will not stand. Even the verse begins to eat away In the acid. Pursuit, pursuit; A wind moves a little, Moving in a circle, very cold. How shall we say? In ordinary discourse — We must talk now. I am no longer sure of the words, The clockwork of the world. What is inexplicable Is the ‘preponderance of objects.’ The sky lights Daily with that predominance And we have become the present. We must talk now. Fear Is fear. But we abandon one another.

“I am no longer sure of the words.” A poem by George Oppen.

ROWYDA AMIN Beach Glass Her wants are small: a few paperbacks, a box of Oolong tea, some greens from the garden in which new types of flowers come up each spring, though she does nothing to make that happen. She likes people now. When the neighbor comes with a plastic bottle of homemade wine, she listens and smiles, at times holding out one of her own thoughts, admiring its pale, watery colors, and placing it back in her pocket unshared. She likes most to swim in the ocean when it's calm, and afterwards to find her clothes still spread out on the rocks where she left them.

“Her wants are small.” A poem by Rowyda Amin.

Ocean Robinson Jeffers It dreams in the deepest sleep, it remembers the storm last month or it feels the far storm Off Unalaska and the lash of the sea-rain It is never mournful but wise, and takes the magical misrule of the steep world With strong tolerance, its depth is not moved From where the green sun fails to where the thin red clay lies on the basalt And there has never been light nor life. The black crystal, the untroubled fountain, the roots of endurance. Therefore I belted The house and the tower and courtyard with stone, And have planted the naked foreland with future forest toward noon and morning: for it told me, The time I was gazing in the black crystal, To be faithful in storm, patient of fools, tolerant of memories and the muttering prophets, It is needful to have night in one's body.

“The black crystal, the untroubled fountain, the roots of endurance.” A poem by Robinson Jeffers.

from the Fifth Villancico BY SOR JUANA INÉS DE LA CRUZ In alternating voices, written for the Feast of the Nativity in Puebla, 1689. Because my Lord was born to suffer, let Him stay awake. Because for me He is awake, let Him fall asleep. Let Him stay awake there is no pain for one who loves as painlessness would be. Let Him sleep- For one who sleeps, in dreaming, prepares himself to die. Silence, now He sleeps! Careful, He's awake! Do not disturb Him, no! Yes, He must be waked! Let Him wake and wake! Let Him have his sleep!

“There is no pain for one who loves.” A poem by Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz, translated by Alan S. Trueblood.

Mine BY SHAIL D. PATEL Pain trains an undisciplined mind. “I will end yours if you end mine.” Little feet, little feet are playing Hopscotch among the landmines. “Hope has uworked miracles before.” If yours didn't, how can mine? I could have learned to welcome night, If only you had been mine. “How dare you put words in God's mouth, Shail?” Why not. He put ashes in mine.

“Pain trains an undisciplined mind.” A poem by Shail D. Patel.

Instrument Why do you write about music, what does music mean to you, can you point to the one instrument that most inspires you, do you still listen to jazz, why don't you play an instrument, and what is music anyway, why can't you say anything about it, do you think mysticism still has a future ahead of it, and if so why, and would you agree with the claim for example that despair is beautiful?

“And what is music anyway.” A poem by Adam Zagajewski (translated by Clare Cavanaugh).

Cold Blooded Creatures BY ELINOR WYLIE Man, the egregious egoist, (In mystery the twig is bent,) Imagines, by some mental twist, That he alone is sentient Of the intolerable load Which on all living creatures lies, Nor stoops to pity in the toad The speechless sorrow of its eyes. He asks no questions of the snake, Nor plumbs the phosphorescent gloom Where lidless fishes, broad awake, Swim staring at a night-mare doom.

“In mystery the twig is bent.” A poem by Elinor Wylie.

ERICA WRIGHT Infrastructure Under the one-track overpass, Micah scrawled his name three times— at the beginning then middle then end as if aware that there are always three of us in a body, like Christ but also like your neighbor who lost his mother then wife then son and turned loud then still then gone. Where are his visitations: past, present, or future? Each day I wake to cries though I mean to rise before them. After the next mistake, I make tea then forget I made tea. Micah, I’ll remember you like you asked with your Magic Marker in the dead of the night when l'd already turned into the third person of myself, as brave as I ever was or will be.

“There are always three of us in a body.” A poem by Erica Wright.

LOVE POEM Simply those differences —as in fingerprints. Simply those similarities —as in salmon eggs clustered at the tongue's root. Simply the dialogue is more than between mustache & razor. It takes no extraordinary strength to open the lion's jaws when he wants to open them for you.

“Strength to open the lion's jaws.” A poem by Diane Wakoski.

Heart Valve BY ELIZABETH ARNOLD They told me there’d be pain so when I felt it, sitting at my beat-up farm desk that looks out glass doors onto the browning garden—plain sparrows bathing in the cube-shaped fountain so violently they drain it, the white-throats with their wobbly two-note song on the long way south still, and our dogs out like lights and almost falling off their chairs freed of the real-time for awhile as time began for me to swell, slow down, carry me out of all this almost to a where about as strong a lure as love.

“They told me there’d be pain.” A poem by Elizabeth Arnold.

RECAP It was that kind of day The kind that goes through you like a skewer but is okay as long as there's someone beside you waiting ready to lick the skewer when it emerges from you

“Waiting ready to lick the skewer.” A poem by Bill Knott.

WISE WOMAN Wise woman of Vermont, come out of the forest Assure me I won't die lonely in these woods, show me How to keep owls out of my hair, tell me how To stack wood, to shoot trespassers, to seal the cracks In my heart to keep the ice out, promise me A catamount won't think I’m food Make me a pot of venison stew While you describe what to expect during the Changes When you no longer sleep and my sorrow seems girlish Teach me how to trim my whiskers when I get witchy Advise me which mushrooms won't kill us quickly Suggest stapling my kid to the wall till he's twenty-six Tell me of your childless aunt who died asking for her kids How do I make it in this cold hard land? Tell me, where is the treasure buried? What's the song I have to sing to myself?

“Tell me, where is the treasure buried?” A poem by Camille Guthrie.

The Bean Eaters BY GWENDOLYN BROOKS They eat beans mostly, this old yellow pair. Dinner is a casual affair. Plain chipware on a plain and creaking wood, Tin flatware. Two who are Mostly Good. Two who have lived their day, But keep on putting on their dothes And putting things away. And remembering ... Remembering, with twinklings and twinges, As they lean over the beans in their rented back room that is full of beads and receipts and dolls and cloths, tobacco crumbs, vases and fringes.

“Dinner is a casual affair.” A poem by Gwendolyn Brooks.

THE GEESE Just as God is not my sorrow, neither does this prow above our gable where a dream has died owe me any more than life has promised us an ending. Though it has. Is it true the sadder we are, the more things stand still? Rudder of dusk, perhaps this love of shape betrays my taste for death. Even more, I love their going—pioneers— beyond my knowing.

“The sadder we are, the more things stand still.” A poem by Lisa Russ Spaar.

IKEJA, FRIDAY, FOUR O'CLOCK They were but gourds for earth to drink therefrom The laden trucks, mirage of breath and form Unbidden offering on the lie of altars A crop of wrath when hands retract and reason falters No feast but the eternal retch of human surfeit No drink but dregs at reckoning of loss and profit Let nought be wasted, gather up for the recurrent session Loaves of lead, lusting in the sun's recession.

“A crop of wrath when hands retract.” A poem by Wole Soyinka.

Sunflower Sonnet Number Two Supposing we could just go on and on as two voracious in the days apart as well as when we side by side (the many ways we do that) well! I would consider then perfection possible, or else worthwhile to think about. Which is to say I guess the costs of long term tend to pile up, block and complicate, erase away the accidental, temporary, near thing/pulsebeat promises one makes because the chance, the easy new, is there in front of you. But still, perfection takes some sacrifice of falling stars for rare. And there are stars, but none of you, to spare.

“Perfection takes some sacrifice of falling stars.” A poem by June Jordan.

A GIRL AGO No feeding on wisteria. No pitch-burner traipsing In the nettled woods. No milk in meral cylinders, no Buttering. No making small contusions on the page But saying nothing no one has not said before. No milkweed blown across your pony-coat, no burrs. No scent of juniper on your Jacobean mouth. No crush Of ink or injury, no lacerating wish. Extinguish me from this. I was sixteen for twenty years. By September I will be a ghost And flickering in unison with all the other fireflies in Appalachia, Blinking in the swarm of it, and all at once, above And on a bare branch in a shepherd's sky. No Dove. There is no thou to speak of.

“I was sixteen for twenty years.” A poem by Lucie Brock-Broido.

HORSES I A sky. A field. A hedge flagrant with gorse. I'm trying to remember, as best I can, if I'm a man dreamning I'm a plowhorse or a great plowhorse dreaming I'm a man. II Midsummer eve. St. John's wort. Spleenwort. Spurge. I'm hard on the heels of the sage, Chuang Tzu, when he sips into what was once a forge through a door in the shape of a horseshoe.

“I'm trying to remember, as best I can.” A poem by Paul Muldoon.

Facet For weeks, I've gone unbroken but not unpunished by the quiet of zero degrees which is worse than the quiet of twenty when at least you can't hear the stars wheeze. I can't make it any clearer than that and stay drunk. A crash course in the afterlife where I still walk beside you but unable to touch your hair. It worries me I could no longer care or only in a detached way like a monk for a scorpion.

“I've gone unbroken but not unpunished by the quiet.” A poem by Dean Young.

Curriculum Vitae let's say you won the race and that the prize was another race that you did not drink the wine of victory but rather your own salt that you never listened to the cheers but only to dogs barking and that your shadow your own shadow was your only and disloyal competitor

“The prize was another race.” A poem by Blanca Varela.

PEG 0' MY HEART Angela Ball Was the peg my beige coat occupied in seventh grade when I was a tottering giant among delicate girls whose umbels were tiny but not their thoughts Miss Reynolds our teacher had almost the same coat called "camel" as if one could cross deserts in it I was my own desert when I took her coat by mistake and she said Look we are so alike we could be sisters and handed me my coat gently so I could hand her hers

“As if one could cross deserts in it.” A poem by Angela Ball.

LOST UMBRELLAS She enters a room exuding displeasure, strewing bits of string, grievances bottle-caps hairnets law books like largess To all corners. From the seams of her change-purse leak Travelers Cheques, Photos of used-car salesmen (dear brothers-in-law), strychnine, ragged old horoscopes And gifts of broken glass. Daughter to the planet Saturn, Mother to my wife— Her courtiers, we direct her, Mix martinis for her Find causes for her, lost umbrellas and car-keys Even at the gates of hell.

“The seams of her change-purse leak.” A poem by Robert S. Sward.

Thaw BY MICHAEL LAUCHLAN Plows have piled a whitened range— faux mountains at the end of our street, slopes shrinking, glazed, grayed. Fog rules the day. In woolly air, shapes stir—slow cars leave a trace of exhaust, careful walkers share loud intimacies. My mother's birth slides across a calendar. Like a stranger who jumps off a bus, crosses tracks and strides toward us, memory parts the sodden gloom of our winter, as though, today, only she can see where she goes and track where she's been.

“Fog rules the day.” A poem by Michael Lauchlan.

Baseball and Classicism BY TOM CLARK Every day I peruse the box scores for hours Sometimes I wonder why I do it Since I am not going to take a test on it And no one is going to give me money The pleasure's something like that of codes Of deciphering an ancient alphabet say So as brightly to picturize Eurydice In the Elysian Fields on her perfect day The day she went 5 for 5 against Vic Raschi

“The pleasure's something like that of codes.” A poem by Tom Clark.