"the way we live now ::" by Evie Shockley

the way we live now ::
by Evie Shockley

       when the cultivators of corpses are busy seeding
plague across vast acres of the land, choking schools
       and churches in the motley toxins of grief, breeding
virile shoots of violence so soon verdant even fools
       fear to tread in their wake :: when all known tools
of resistance are clutched in the hands of the vile
       like a wilting bouquet, cut from their roots, while

the disempowered slice smiles across their own faces
       and hide the wet knives in writhing thickets of hair
for future use :: when breathing in the ashen traces
       of dreams deferred, the detonator’s ticking a queer
echo that amplifies instead of fading :: when there-
       you-are is where-you-were and the sunset groans
into the atlantic, setting blue fire to dark white bones.






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"Poem Without an End" by Yehuda Amichai (translated by Chana Bloch)

Poem Without an End
by Yehuda Amichai
translated by Chana Bloch

Inside the brand-new museum
there’s an old synagogue.
Inside the synagogue
is me.
Inside me
my heart.
Inside my heart
a museum.
Inside the museum
a synagogue,
inside it
me,
inside me
my heart,
inside my heart
a museum






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"To the States," by Walt Whitman

To the States,
by Walt Whitman

To Identify the 16th, 17th, or 18th Presidentiad.
Why reclining, interrogating? why myself and all drowsing? 
What deepening twilight—scum floating atop of the waters, 
Who are they as bats and night-dogs askant in the capitol? 
What a filthy Presidentiad! (O South, your torrid suns! O North, your arctic freezings!) 
Are those really Congressmen? are those the great Judges? is that the President? 
Then I will sleep awhile yet, for I see that these States sleep, for reasons; 
(With gathering murk, with muttering thunder and lambent shoots we all duly awake, 
South, North, East, West, inland and seaboard, we will surely awake.)






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"The Song of the Ungirt Runners" by Charles Hamilton Sorely

The Song of the Ungirt Runners
by Charles Hamilton Sorely


We swing ungirded hips,
And lightened are our eyes,
The rain is on our lips,
We do not run for prize.
We know not whom we trust
Nor whitherward we fare,
But we run because we must
    Through the great wide air.

The waters of the seas
Are troubled as by storm.
The tempest strips the trees
And does not leave them warm.
Does the tearing tempest pause?
Do the tree-tops ask it why?
So we run without a cause
    'Neath the big bare sky.

The rain is on our lips,
We do not run for prize.
But the storm the water whips
And the wave howls to the skies.
The winds arise and strike it
And scatter it like sand,
And we run because we like it
    Through the broad bright land.

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"Long Marriage" by Gerald Fleming

Long Marriage
by Gerald Fleming

You’re worried, so you wake her 
& you talk into the dark: 
Do you think I have cancer, you 
say, or Were there worms 
in that meat, or Do you think 
our son is OK, and it’s 
wonderful, really—almost 
ceremonial as you feel 
the vessel of your worry pass 
miraculously from you to her— 
Gee, the rain sounds so beautiful, 
you say—I’m going back to sleep.






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"The Goddess Who Created This Passing World" by Alice Notley

The Goddess Who Created This Passing World
by Alice Notley

The Goddess who created this passing world
Said Let there be lightbulbs & liquefaction
Life spilled out onto the street, colors whirled
Cars & the variously shod feet were born
And the past & future & I born too
Light as airmail paper away she flew
To Annapurna or Mt. McKinley
Or both but instantly
Clarified, composed, forever was I
Meant by her to recognize a painting
As beautiful or a movie stunning
And to adore the finitude of words
And understand as surfaces my dreams
Know the eye the organ of affection
And depths to be inflections
Of her voice & wrist & smile





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"Beyond the Red River" by Thomas McGrath

Beyond the Red River
by Thomas McGrath

The birds have flown their summer skies to the south,
And the flower-money is drying in the banks of bent grass
Which the bumble bee has abandoned. We wait for a winter lion,
Body of ice-crystals and sombrero of dead leaves.

A month ago, from the salt engines of the sea,
A machinery of early storms rolled toward the holiday houses
Where summer still dozed in the pool-side chairs, sipping
An aging whiskey of distances and departures.

Now the long freight of autumn goes smoking out of the land.
My possibles are all packed up, but still I do not leave.
I am happy enough here, where Dakota drifts wild in the universe,
Where the prairie is starting to shake in the surf of the winter dark.





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"Mansplaining" by Jennifer Militello

Mansplaining
by Jennifer Militello

Dear sir, your air of authority
leaves me lost. Eases me from
a place of ease. Contracts with
my contradictions to take from me
a place. Autopilots my autobiography.
Frightens my fright. Sighs with
my breath. Wins at my race.
Your certainty has me curtained.
Your nerve has me nervous. Your
childhood has me childlike and
your nastiness nests in my belfry
like a hawk. You are beyond
and above my slice of sky, peach
as a pie, bourbon as its pit. You are
spit and vinegar while I sour
in my bowl. You bowl me over
while I tread lightly on
my feet. You walk on water
while I sink. You witness me,
fisherman, boat on the lake,
while I struggle and burble and brittle
and drop. You wink at me and
I must relate. I close my eyes
to erase you and you are written
in my lids. A litmus test. A form
of lair. God with three days
of facial growth and an old bouquet
for a face. Soap and water for
a brain. I have no handsome
answer. I have no pillar of salt
or shoulder to look over. I have
no feather to weigh. I have no
bubble to burst. I am less
to myself, a character in a drama,
a drumbeat, a benevolence, a
blight. All parts of me say shoot
on sight. Aim for an artery
or organ. Good night.





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"Eyes Fastened with Pins" by Charles Simic

Eyes Fastened with Pins
by Charles Simic

How much death works,
No one knows what a long
Day he puts in. The little
Wife always alone
Ironing death’s laundry.
The beautiful daughters
Setting death’s supper table.
The neighbors playing
Pinochle in the backyard
Or just sitting on the steps
Drinking beer. Death,
Meanwhile, in a strange
Part of town looking for
Someone with a bad cough,
But the address is somehow wrong,
Even death can’t figure it out
Among all the locked doors ...   
And the rain beginning to fall.
Long windy night ahead.
Death with not even a newspaper
To cover his head, not even
A dime to call the one pining away,
Undressing slowly, sleepily,
And stretching naked
On death’s side of the bed.






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"They shut me up in Prose – (445)" by Emily Dickinson

They shut me up in Prose – (445)
by Emily Dickinson

They shut me up in Prose –
As when a little Girl
They put me in the Closet –
Because they liked me “still”   –

Still! Could themself have peeped –
And seen my Brain – go round –
They might as wise have lodged a Bird
For Treason – in the Pound –

Himself has but to will
And easy as a Star
Look down opon Captivity –
And laugh – No more have I –





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"Abecedarian Requiring Further Examination of Anglikan Seraphym Subjugation of a Wild Indian Rezervation" by Natalie Diaz

Abecedarian Requiring Further Examination of Anglikan Seraphym Subjugation of a Wild Indian Rezervation
by Natalie Diaz

Angels don’t come to the reservation.
Bats, maybe, or owls, boxy mottled things.
Coyotes, too. They all mean the same thing—
death. And death
eats angels, I guess, because I haven’t seen an angel
fly through this valley ever.
Gabriel? Never heard of him. Know a guy named Gabe though—
he came through here one powwow and stayed, typical
Indian. Sure he had wings,
jailbird that he was. He flies around in stolen cars. Wherever he stops,
kids grow like gourds from women’s bellies.
Like I said, no Indian I’ve ever heard of has ever been or seen an angel.
Maybe in a Christmas pageant or something—
Nazarene church holds one every December,
organized by Pastor John’s wife. It’s no wonder
Pastor John’s son is the angel—everyone knows angels are white.
Quit bothering with angels, I say. They’re no good for Indians.
Remember what happened last time
some white god came floating across the ocean?
Truth is, there may be angels, but if there are angels
up there, living on clouds or sitting on thrones across the sea wearing
velvet robes and golden rings, drinking whiskey from silver cups,
we’re better off if they stay rich and fat and ugly and
’xactly where they are—in their own distant heavens.
You better hope you never see angels on the rez. If you do, they’ll be marching you off to
Zion or Oklahoma, or some other hell they’ve mapped out for us.





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"Words" by John Keene

Words
by John Keene

 When you said people did you mean punish?
        When you said friend did you mean fraud?
When you said thought did you mean terror?
        When you said connection did you mean con?
When you said God did you mean greed?
                When you said faith did you mean fanatic?
When you said hope did you mean hype?
        When you said unity did you mean enmity?
When you said freedom did you mean forfeit?
        When you said law did you mean lie?
When you said truth did you mean treason?
        When you said feeling did you mean fool?
When you said together did you mean token?
        When you said desire did you mean desert?
When you said sex did you mean savagery?
        When you said need did you mean nought?
When you said blood did you mean bought?
        When you said heart did you mean hard?
When you said head did you mean hide?
        When you said health did you mean hurt?
When you said love did you mean loss?
        When you said fate did you mean fight?
When you said destiny did you mean decimate?
        When you said honor did you mean hunger?
When you said bread did you mean broke?
        When you said feast did you mean fast?
When you said first did you mean forgotten?
        When you said last did you mean least?
When you said woman did you mean wither?
        When you said man did you mean master?
When you said mother did you mean smother?
        When you said father did you mean fatal?
When you said sister did you mean surrender?
        When you said brother did you mean brutal?
When you said fellow did you mean follow?
        When you said couple did you mean capital?
When you said family did you mean failure?
        When you said mankind did you mean market?
When you said society did you mean sickness?
        When you said democracy did you mean indignity?
When you said equality did you mean empty?
        When you said politics did you mean power?
When you said left did you mean lost?
        When you said right did you mean might?
When you said republic did you mean rich?
        When you said wealthy did you mean wall?
When you said poor did you mean prison?
        When you said justice did you mean just us?
When you said immigrant did you mean enemy?
        When you said refugee did you mean refusal?
When you said earth did you mean ownership?
        When you said soil did you mean oil?
When you said community did you mean conflict?
        When you said safety did you mean suspicion?
When you said security did you mean sabotage?
        When you said army did you mean Armageddon?
When you said white did you mean welcome?
        When you said black did you mean back?
When you said yellow did you mean yield?
        When you said brown did you mean down?
When you said we did you mean war?
        When you said you did you mean useless?
When you said she did you mean suffer?
        When you said he did you mean horror?
When you said they did you mean threat?
        When you said I did you mean island?
When you said tribe did you mean trouble?
        When you said name did you mean nobody?
When you said news did you mean nonsense?
        When you said media did you mean miasma?
When you said success did you mean sucker?
        When you said fame did you mean game?
When you said ideal did you mean idol?
        When you said yesterday did you mean travesty?
When you said today did you mean doomsday?
        When you said tomorrow did you mean never?
When you said hear did you mean hush?
        When you said listen did you mean limit?
When you said write did you mean wound?
        When you said read did you mean retreat?
When you said literacy did you mean apathy?
        When you said fiction did you mean forget?
When you said poetry did you mean passivity?
                When you say art do you mean act?

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"No, Thank You, John" by Christina Rossetti

No, Thank You, John
by Christina Rossetti

I never said I loved you, John:
        Why will you tease me, day by day,
And wax a weariness to think upon
        With always "do" and "pray"?

You know I never loved you, John;
        No fault of mine made me your toast:
Why will you haunt me with a face as wan
        As shows an hour-old ghost?

I dare say Meg or Moll would take
        Pity upon you, if you'd ask:
And pray don't remain single for my sake
        Who can't perform that task.

I have no heart?—Perhaps I have not;
        But then you're mad to take offence
That I don't give you what I have not got:
        Use your common sense.

Let bygones be bygones:
        Don't call me false, who owed not to be true:
I'd rather answer "No" to fifty Johns
        Than answer "Yes" to you.

Let's mar our pleasant days no more,
        Song-birds of passage, days of youth:
Catch at to-day, forget the days before:
        I'll wink at your untruth.

Let us strike hands as hearty friends;
        No more, no less: and friendship's good:
Only don't keep in view ulterior ends,
        And points not understood

In open treaty. Rise above
        Quibbles and shuffling off and on:
Here's friendship for you if you like; but love,—
        No, thank you, John.





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"Don't Allow the Lucid Moment to Dissolve" by Adam Zagajewski

Don't Allow the Lucid Moment to Dissolve
by Adam Zagajewski
translated by Renata Gorczynski

Don't allow the lucid moment to dissolve
Let the radiant thought last in stillness
though the page is almost filled and the flame flickers
We haven't risen yet to the level of ourselves
Knowledge grows slowly like a wisdom tooth
The stature of a man is still notched
high up on a white door
From far off, the joyful voice of a trumpet
and of a song rolled up like a cat
What passes doesn't fall into a void
A stoker is still feeding coal into the fire
Don't allow the lucid moment to dissolve
On a hard dry substance
you have to engrave the truth





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"Between Autumn Equinox and Winter Solstice, Today" by Emily Jungmin Yoon

Between Autumn Equinox and Winter Solstice, Today
by Emily Jungmin Yoon

I read a Korean poem
with the line “Today you are the youngest
you will ever be.” Today I am the oldest
I have been. Today we drink
buckwheat tea. Today I have heat
in my apartment. Today I think
about the word chada in Korean.
It means cold. It means to be filled with. 
It means to kick. To wear. Today we’re worn.
Today you wear the cold. Your chilled skin.
My heart knocks on my skin. Someone said
winter has broken his windows. The heat inside
and the cold outside sent lightning across glass.
Today my heart wears you like curtains. Today
it fills with you. The window in my room
is full of leaves ready to fall. Chada, you say. It’s tea. 
We drink. It is cold outside.





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"Drift" by Brenda Shaughnessy

Drift
by Brenda Shaughnessy

I’ll go anywhere to leave you but come with me.
All the cities are like you anyway. Windows
darken when I get close enough to see.
Any place we want to stay’s polluted,

the good spots taken already by those
who ruin them. And restaurants we’d never find.
We’d rut a ditch by a river in nights
so long they must be cut by the many pairs

of wrong-handled scissors maybe god owns
and doesn’t share. I water god.
I make a haunted lake and rinse and rinse.
I take what I want, and have ever since what

I want disappeared, like anything hunted.
That’s what you said. Disappointment
isn’t tender, dried and wide instead.
The tourists snapped you crying,

and the blanket I brought was so dirty
it must have been lying around
in lice and blood that whole year we fought.
It wasn’t clear, so I forgot.

I haven’t been sleeping, next to you
twitching to bury my boring eyes.
The ship made you sad, and the ferry, and canoe.
All boats do.





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