She’s not letting herself
go, she’s reclaiming
the crown of bright white
streaked with gunmetal
gray she once hid (poorly)
like genetic shame,
the way they taught her.
In this, her Great Untaming,
she is watching the dark
dye slip down the sides
of her part over time
like tacky art, and smiling.
She is wearing her freed
silver strands as she wears
her smile—recklessly,
and without one fuck
for all the boring
beauty standards.
I suspect it was curiosity that prompted you
to mix face scrub in with my shampoo.
Maybe you’ll grow up to be a chemist or an engineer or cure cancer.
At least this is what I tell myself as I rinse the grit from my scalp.
Mom died, and goldfinches flooded
my feeders, bright yellow edged in white
and black, singing soprano worthy
of the Welsh, sunlight tempered
by moon and night.
Dad faded, slow then fast, lost himself
in dementia. After he died, the kestrel
appeared, over my head, in the park,
floating above the interstate exit,
sharp-eyed, clear-minded, quick.
Maggie fought loss of independence
until she couldn’t. At her home, at my sister’s,
the Carolina wren sang its teakettle song.
The day she died, one perched on the porch rail
and sang and sang and sang.
Spring has sprung,
Not for all, but for some.
How do you know spring has sprung?
I saw a flower, yes just one.
Oh, that may be a bit premature,
You shouldn’t say it if you’re not sure.
Yes but, if you smell the air,
You may notice the sweetness that lingers there.
Oh phooey! You can’t tell by that!
You need more evidence; you need more facts.
I have proof, do you want to see?
Look out the window at the budding tree.
Now if you don’t believe that spring has sprung,
I wipe my hands, and I am done.
Can’t tell you more, you must wait,
I just hope it won’t be too late.
Makia A.
Long Live Peggy
(From all the students she taught, and who taught her.)
Peggy is dead.
Long live Peggy!
She died on May 21st.
None of us knew Peggy.
I hadn’t thought of her much
since high school science class,
though the smell of formaldehyde
and sulphur lingers in my nasal cavity.
I hadn’t thought of her at all
except when I rub the scar on my thumb
I got from lighting the Bunsen burner
on the marble top table.
I hadn’t thought of her,
except, when I close my eyes,
and see the fetal pig dissected,
its gray flesh pinned open,
its organs exposed.
I cannot bear to touch the locust,
its exoskeleton feels extraterrestrial,
conjuring the irrational fear of witches.
None of us knew her.
Our four years were filled
with first kisses and broken hearts.
Our football stars aren’t as big in old photos
As they seemed in 1983.
Peggy looks taller than I remember.
She lives in that second floor classroom,
hangs out in the teachers’ lounge
smoking cigarettes and drinking Diet Pepsi,
laughing while perched on a window sill.
So why do I feel this tightening in my chest
and squeeze my eyelids so not to cry?
Peggy is dead.
Long Live Peggy.
Alissa Sammarco
June 2, 2023
Simplicities of Need
I think I’m kind of like a deer.
I’m about the right size.
I need feed and water
and to sleep sheltered at night.
Or maybe I’m more like a goat.
I am stubborn and need coaxing.
I need good strong fencing
and will eat almost anything.
I really want to be a cat.
I like to sleep by a window.
I lay around all day
and give most people dirty looks.
But let’s face it, I’m a person.
I live mostly from the nose up.
I stomp around on bad knees
with no thought to the wake I leave.
I’m a tame human animal.
I belie the simplicities
of need. Creature comforts,
loving kindness, quieted heart.
June
first
second
poem-a-day—
like morning goetta
fried with care and shared with others
(Goetta is a Greater Cincinnati breakfast specialty)
A single strand of nylon string
is anchored to opposing walls.
Higher on the left wall.
Lower on the right.
This museum
room is otherwise well lit,
and empty.
A small black plaque
on the door contains
a cryptic paragraph.
She shakes her head.
Shuffles down the hall.
