๐๐
by Gertrude Sturdle
It is never
what it seems to be
unless it is licorice.
And then
sadly
it is.
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โboltโ is to lock and โboltโ is to run away.
Thatโs how I think of New York. Someone
jonesing for Grace Jones at the party,
and someone jonesing for grace.
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๐ ๐ ๐๐ถ๐ฟ๐๐ ๐ก๐ฎ๐บ๐ฒ
by Susan Harlan
No, you canโt call me
By my first name,
And yes,
I know that
A male professor
Told you that titles
Are silly
Because a certain genre
Of man
Is always dying
To performatively
Divest himself
Of his easily won
Authority.
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thinking nothing, thinking: Sweatbox,
sweatbox, the boy on his way
toward a minnow whose slight beard
tells the subtleties of the current, holding there,
in water cold enough to break your ankles.
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Sooner murder an infant in its cradle than nurse unacted desires.
Where man is not nature is barren.
Truth can never be told so as to be understood, and not be believโd.
Enough! or Too much!
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He rushed to his desk, full of contemptuous wrath,
to write fierce letters to the morons in power โ
Burn me! he wrote with his blazing pen โ
Havenโt I always reported the truth?
Now here you are, treating me like a liar!
Burn me!
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the negative space
the art teacher says to trace against;
a special kind of alibi:
๐ ๐ข๐ฎ ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ต ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฌ ๐ ๐ข๐ฎ
๐ ๐ข๐ฎ ๐ฆ๐ท๐ฆ๐ณ๐บ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆ
โโโโโ๐ธ๐ฆ ๐ข๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ฆ๐ท๐ฆ๐ณ๐บ๐ธ๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ๐ฆโโโโโ
๐บ๐ฐ๐ถ ๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ฏ๐ฌ ๐ธ๐ฆโ๐ณ๐ฆ ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ต.
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heโs finding out what it means
to be a man and how different it is
from the way that only hours ago he imagined it.
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Knowing as much sharpens
my delight in January freesia,
hot coffee, winter sunlight. So we say
as we lie close on some gentle occasion:
every day won from such
darkness is a celebration.
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What he doesnโt know
is that when weโre walking
together, when we get
to the curb
I sometimes start to reach
for his hand
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๐๐ถ๐ณ๐
Leonard Cohen (1958)
You tell me that silence
is nearer to peace than poems
but if for my gift
I brought you silence
(for I know silence)
you would say
๐๐ฉ๐ช๐ด ๐ช๐ด ๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ต ๐ด๐ช๐ญ๐ฆ๐ฏ๐ค๐ฆ
๐ต๐ฉ๐ช๐ด ๐ช๐ด ๐ข๐ฏ๐ฐ๐ต๐ฉ๐ฆ๐ณ ๐ฑ๐ฐ๐ฆ๐ฎ
and you would hand it back to me.
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I let remembering fill me up
with all good things
so that good things will overflow
into my sleeping self,
and in the morning
good things will be waiting
when I wake.
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It made me smile and hug you then.
Now I can only smile.
But, look, the flowers you nearly bought
Have lasted all this while.
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The trees themselves, as in winters past,
will survive their burdening,
broken thrive. And am I less to You,
my God, than they?
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But what are you trying
to be free of?
The living? The miraculous
task of it?
Love is for the ones who love the work.
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your small voice against it. And do not
take cover. Instead, curl your toes
into the grass, watch the cloud
ascending from your lips. Walk
through the gardenโs dormant splendor.
Say only, thank you.
Thank you.
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๐๐๐น๐ฎ๐ป๐ฑ
by Langston Hughes
Wave of sorrow,
Do not drown me now:
I see the island
Still ahead somehow.
I see the island
And its sands are fair:
Wave of sorrow,
Take me there.
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Their hands are not inside each otherโs clothes
(because of the driver) but locked so tightly
together that it hurts: it may leave marks
on their not of course youthful skin, which they wonโt
notice. They too may have futures.
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๐ง๐ต๐ฒ ๐๐น๐ฒ๐ฝ๐ต๐ฎ๐ป๐ ๐ถ๐ป ๐๐ต๐ฒ ๐ฅ๐ผ๐ผ๐บ
by Kay Ryan
The room is
almost all
elephant.
Almost none
of it isnโt.
Pretty much
solid elephant.
So thereโs no
room to talk
about it.
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She would know nothing
Of love. The three things she'd been given
To remember. Wake me up, please, she said,
When this life is over. Look at herโIt's as if
The windows of night have been sewn to her eyes.
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๐ ๐ ๐๐ฎ๐ฟ๐๐ผ๐ผ๐ป
by Sam Pink
Turning a crank
on the side of my head
& shooting diamonds
out of my eyes
into your face
where they explode
with little dinging sounds.
Youโre in my cartoon now
honey.
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๐น๐ถ๐๐๐น๐ฒ ๐ฝ๐ฟ๐ฎ๐๐ฒ๐ฟ
by Danez Smith
let ruin end here
let him find honey
where there was once a slaughter
let him enter the lionโs cage
& find a field of lilacs
let this be the healing
& if not let it be
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(Originally slated for April 20)
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๐๐ถ๐
by Andrea Cohen
Everyone canโt
be a lamplighter.
Someone must
be the lamp,
and someone
must, in bereaved
rooms sit,
unfathoming what
it is to be lit.
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O, how we entertain the angels
with our brief animation. O,
how Iโll miss you when weโre dead.
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(Originally slated for April 19)
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But it wasnโt in her file
And for those last bewildered weeks
She was Eliza once again.
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(Originally slated for April 18)
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That you must accept change
before you die
but you will die anyway.
So you might as well live
and you might as well love.
You might as well love.
You might as well love.
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Itโs okay if you canโt imagine
Spring. Sleep through the alarm
of the world. Name your hopelessness
a quiet hollow, a place you go
to heal, a den you dug,
Sweetheart, instead
of a grave.
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(Originally slated for April 17)
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Birds fly here without any sound,
unfolding their wings across the open.
No people killedโor were killedโon this ground
hallowed by neglect and an air so tame
that people celebrate it by forgetting its name.
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