Close your eyes.
Picture the world we lived in,
the one we used to call our home.
Imagine a time we
would desperately claw to.
One where
as we stand amidst
the threat of a virus, against
injustice,
we are one.
Finally a purpose to move forwards–
A light at the end
of the tunnel. This
is only the beginning.
Now open.
Try not to stare too intensely,
for the ever growing flames
might clutter
your thoughts as well.
Pine Mountain Cemetery III
Russell Howard
Pine trees don’t grow too big
But this one got something extra.
Sits back at the head of the flat
Near that cold branch trickle.
Guess it soaked up all the good.
Water, mineral and ash to grow so tall.
It marks today where the kin laid
What was left of Russell Howard,
Who never had a single chance
On getting anything extra
In his short and tortured life.
A stubborn Maytag grabbed his hand
Rolled up his skinny arm to choke
The screaming life from that boy
Bent on squeezing water from wet
Wash to rest his mother’s back.
Twelve years old he was but three
Is more like what he in true knew.
His clan perhaps willed that pine to
Share strength, wisdom and age
With this child given less than little.
Amonst his kin and strangers death
Must hold more promise than ever
He knew shut away from prying eyes.
For Stewart N. Parrish
Grandfather,
the snow storm cut short
my trip to attend your funeral.
I-75 was closed to traffic
from Lexington, Kentucky
to Steubenville, Ohio.
Last night,
these years later,
having fallen asleep
on the sofa,
I dreamed of you,
the time we spent
together on the front porch
of your rented house
and talked.
You spoke about your father
and his death when he was 100
after his black stallion reared
and fell backward
in the corral,
taking life.
In my dream,
sadness returned
until you reminded me
of how much you loved
horses and women
as I woke.
Marriage for guilt, lust or love
young enough to misjudge commitment
old enough to cleave
to what could be
I was a performer
without talent or skill
acting as if I knew what love is;
and still I act
The recklessness of heart cleaved
what no man could put asunder
as if a seasoned careless butcher
knew the parting spot by divining
rusty dull knife in hand
Separating circumstance
from what the heart recognizes
as verity and passion
convert to struggled acceptance
rent with jagged torn edges
I was an amateur carpenter
of emotion
patching together the chunks of love known
while seeking the shadowy heart’s desire
using bent nails of intention
Aging changes perceptions
slowly or unpromisingly at times
owning shortcomings without confessions
lacking apologies or admission
I bent my witching wand
willow fork searching
for inner reconciliation
that arrives in spurts and shudders yet
lacks a course to nirvana
I lose the muscle memory of resistance
and find myself in your arms.
The world is a cushion that gives,
an untroubled field, an unhurried promise,
paradise intoxicated by its own fragrance.
She was destruction
At four years old, she destroyed her family because Mommy and Daddy didn’t love each other anymore
She destroyed a home at eight years old when her happiest moments came when one more hole in the drywall meant one less bruise on her body
She destroyed a body at ten years old when she learned that the pain could be eased when her skin was bleeding
She destroyed a life at thirteen years old when she told the police about the man with blue eyes that was twice her size and twice her age
She destroyed a relationship at fourteen years old when she demanded love from the heart of a loveless father
She destroyed a vision at fifteen years old when her lips brushed against those of another woman and it felt like fireworks
She destroyed expectations at sixteen years old when she discovered a voice of her own
At seventeen years old, she brought the world to its knees and demanded a revolution.
For she was not destruction, she was only raised by it.
Alexa Negrón Luciano (Neulisa Luciano Ruiz), 29, Toa Baja, Puerto Rico, humble and noble • Yampi Méndez Arocho, 19, Moca, Puerto Rico, your favorite baby • Monika Diamond, 34, Charlotte, N.C., chosen mother to countless • Lexi “Ebony” Sutton, 33, New York, N.Y., would give you the shoes off her feet in winter • Johanna Metzger, 25, Baltimore, Md., college graduate and self-taught musician • Serena Angelique Velázquez Ramos, 32, Humacao, Puerto Rico, a strong soul • Layla Pelaez Sánchez, 21, Humacao, Puerto Rico, had recently moved to the island from New York • Penélope Díaz Ramírez, 31, Bayamón, Puerto Rico, wore long blue pants and a white shirt • Nina Pop, 28, Sikeston, Mo., always happy • Helle Jae O’Regan, 20, San Antonio, Tex., lived like it was the best day of her life every day • Tony McDade, 38, Tallahassee, Fla., struggling, struggling, struggling
My lifestyle hasn’t changed much
in years. I still save the phrases
in my phone, overhearing
talk in the grocery store and, later, riff.
Words like timepiece and quick
descriptions of others, momentary
mirrors. Words like ration and ruin. Words
like protest and a certain frantic
shopping, as if all the condiments aisle
could fill the chasm in our hearts. I buy
the rice vinegar to dash against
my takeout, and, later, satisfied,
I love it fierce. Alone can be
a comfort and prophecy, even now. Partitioning
myself like a sovereign territory.
Here, I know what seems important:
cigarette smoke, the dream/threat of
looming ruin like sunrise. Sometimes,
it’s hard to exactly verbalize all
I really want and try to say.
you’ve hurt me before,
but i’m the only one holding the knife now.
there’s nothing more you are capable of.
i have the power to end this.
in point of fact. i am now you.
no one wants to hear this.
it’s better we never see each other again.
this doesn’t erase my responsibility.
i am the only one holding the knife now.
no one wants to hear this.
heart-wood
based on “Trees” by W. S. Merwin
arms outstretched
without opinion or judgement
whatever sphere there is
after this dimensional
green
what will I regret
other than those unacknowledged
conspirators their pooled
shadows waded in by those
who never look
up or
consider the paper’d skin
calloused muscles shouldering
overhead
without the tongue
of tree are their names
more significant that the scar
of a falling star that fists
its way across my dreams
I sleep in a green cradle
while the trees
pass me on
to the next
exclaiming over my beauty
pliant and forgiving
