by David Lehman
are always late in the day of their time.
Like dances, our political lives come and go.
It’s the summer of all dances, coffee leaping
in the percolator, gravity-defiant solitude,
and through the window, houses and fields
seduced in their own passing crazes
of seasons, life and death that won’t need me.
from Fruita Pulp
A. E. STALLINGS
* * *
Ajar
The washing machine door broke. We hand-washed for a week.
Left in the tub to soak, the angers began to reek,
And sometimes when we spoke, you said we shouldn’t speak.
Pandora was a bride; the gods gave her a jar
But said don’t look inside. You know how stories are—
The can of worms denied? It’s never been so far.
Whatever the gods forbid, it’s sure someone will do.
And so Pandora did, and made the worst come true.
She peeked under the lid, and out all trouble flew:
Sickness, war, and pain, nerves frayed like fretted rope,
Every mortal bane with which Mankind must cope.
The only thing to remain, lodged in the mouth, was Hope.
Or so the tale asserts— and who am I to deny it?
Yes, out like black-winged birds the woes flew and ran riot,
But I say that the woes were words, and the only thing left was quiet.
from The Atlantic Monthly
SUSAN TERRIS
* * *
Memo to the Former Child Prodigy
by the age of nine you knew everything tra-la
had met two Presidents tra-la could explain pi
memorize Shakespeare soliloquies
or checkmate anyone blind-folded child’s play
violin oboe harpsichord duplicate bridge
so what then was left to do
cut corners fit in marry someone
polish silver slap your children or go back
back to one tra-la then two and so forth
’til you learn to love all that blooms in the spring
from Denver Quarterly
MICHAEL TYRELL
* * *
Delicatessen
after Hurricane Sandy & 3 nights of no power
In the delicatessen a last avocado.
Black, pulpy—a kind of soft grenade.
I set it down
for probably nobody.
I step out—not through doors
but through clear plastic tatters
shimmering in a doorframe.
Hothouse roses on the shelves outside;
hyacinths in foiled cups.
*
Calling storms by dumb names—
not the shabbiest way of neutering disaster,
I think.
Like the pit bull called Cuddles,
the Lover’s Lane near the sewage treatment plant—
Even All Saints’ Day,
when you think about it.
Today, when I say, I have it good,
meaning, better than others,
& the children screaming Help
then Made you look, meaning
We tricked you—
*
But hyacinths in November!
You should see them!
Hyacinths make roses ridiculous by contrast.
Just look at the roses
hyperventilating in their cellophane shawls—
Pluck their cat claws & they don’t object . . .
I want to grab someone passing & ask
the riddle that flowers won’t answer—
how much beauty
comes from never saying no?
*
Maybe someone will answer me.
That’s why I keep my mouth shut.
*
But not the sour-mouthed cashier—
she handles the bills,
she carelessly dabs the lemon wedge
she keeps by the side of the register.
Never a word from her.
Maybe the balances chafe
the tongue as well as the fingers.
She doesn’t need to keep an eye peeled—
the cameras do it all.
If I could teach one art, it
would be how to go home unanswered,
empty-handed—
*
But what about the sidewalk Cyclops,
the all-seeing tattoo on the bald guy’s head,
who once, I swear, called me by my right name,
who saw me frowning in sunlight—
That & this so bad, Tyrell, you ain’t
seen the darkest yet . . .
The subway’s closed tonight—
what darkest dark can he guard now?
*
I think I’d grow to like it—
the terrible wisdom
of stillness. The stomach, unchurning,
hollow as a prop.
The circles moving around them,
the cashier & the Cyclops.
The flowers too, if they can
reckon up anything besides their own mutilation.
Maybe they can sense
the babies wheeling by at warp speed . . .
who seem too light, having
little to them, or too much—an eye,
a name, some inarticulate rage,
all that’s needed to be called a storm.
*
And what’s a blackout, Tyrell?
Afraid of roaches?
Maybe you’ll make some new friends.
*
And why hyacinths, why November?
Why rooted, not cut through, uncovered,
combining two colors?
Celestial blue, arterial purple,
maybe earth thinking both of heaven
& the blood in the sexes—
Thinking not only of a man-boy
turned into something beautifully inhuman
because a god looked at him once
but also picturing women
who know how to hide,
the woman in the jungle camp called
Hyacinth?
76, secreting herself
under a cot while the cult leader
in the pavilion makes nine hundred others
lie on the ground one last time,
& they won’t rise again,
the cups on the ground like white flowers.
The toxins, red and purple in the cups,
around the roses of their mouths.
& Hyacinth who knows how to hide,
how to wait for the last to drink
even as the writer of the last note
summons those particulars
that are terrible for being so ordinary—
a gray sky, a dog barking,
a bird on a telephone wire.
White night, the leader calls it.
Stepping over the people on the ground—
Hyacinth & the moon
can rise in the white, humid night.
*
November then;
November now.
A kind of soft grenade
I set down for probably nobody.
Would I eat the goddamn flowers
if I thought they’d answer?
Made you look is all we can say
from The Iowa Review
WENDY VIDELOCK
* * *
How You Might Approach a Foal:
like a lagoon,
like a canoe,
like you
are part earth
and part moon,
like déjà-vu,
like you
had never been
to the outer brink
or the inner Louvre,
like hay,
like air,
like your mother
just this morning
had combed a dream
into your hair,
like you
had never heard
a sermon or
a harsh word,
like a fool,
like a pearl,
like you
are new to the world.
from The New Criterion
SIDNEY WADE
* * *
The Chickasaw Trees
are full of bees
the pretty white
panicles
everywhere
light
turn them
frantic
as they haul
their pollen
baskets
from star
to star
to fragrant
star this
industry
thrumming
in the hearts
of flatland
plums hums
in the lucky
air far
from where
war
goes on
and on and
here on
the sun-lit
prairie light
winds shift
and dusky
nouns are sung
from the trees
where an owl
frowns
in sleep
and later
comes
in the guise
of ghost
to say
he knows
that all
the people
in a world
without bees
are lost
from Blackbird
CODY WALKER
* * *
Trades I Would Make
Ronald Reagan for Donald Fagen.
Tijuana for Madonna.
This vale of tears for ten good years.
This schmuck I picked up in Indonesia for a bucket of anesthesia.
An icicle for a bicycle.
My neighbor’s hollyhock trellis for Dock Ellis.
Jim (or Jimmy-o, if he’ll permit) DeMint for a bit of lint.
A pay-as-you-go princess (read: overpriced hotté) for an iced latte.
A booster seat for some rooster meat.
A year in jail for some kale.
A turtle (either box or leatherhead) for a feather bed.
Gehrig, Unitas, Chamberlain (a bunch of dead jocks) for lunch with Redd Foxx.
A cat named Frisky for a vat of whiskey.
The color red for a feller named Jed.
A crate of elastic for a second-rate spastic.
A “C’mon, Cody, that’s not very PC” shellacking for (and why not?) the Academy of American Poets’ backing.
The Jackie Gleason Diet for a little peace and quiet.
Someone who dislikes (unlike us) V for a ficus tree.
An acceptable level of risk for a bowl of lobster bisque.
Former Seattle Seahawk and current KIRO newscaster Steve Raible for a tucked-away-in-the-corner-and-absolutely-not-double-booked New Year’s Eve table.
Target (the store) for a degree in folklore.
The Business Section of The New York Times for a few more rhymes.
My imprisoned twin (and please, treat him nice) for Jim Rice.
A toy train (toot, toot) for a zoot suit.
A surfer-turned-robber’s botched bank job (“gnarly”) for Bob Marley.
These “Good God, I’m suddenly feeling cold and sick” shivers for “Mick the Quick” Rivers.
The voices in my head for Joyce’s “The Dead.”
A damaged and circling Space Shuttle that NASA won’t let dock for a pet rock.
My EVIL THOUGHTS (evil; did I stammer?) for a hammer.
A ticket to Loserdom for some booze or gum.
A ticket to Nowhere for a stern warning: Don’t Go There.
Electronica rap for a quick, uh, nap.
A punch in the ear for a buncha beer.
My girlfriend’s personality-test result (“Freako Chick,” which quite shocked her) for Ferdie Pacheco, the quick-stitch Fight Doctor.
A rotten grin for a cotton gin.
An irresponsible payout for a possible way out.
A hanging slider for a spider.
President William “Who Wants to Fight?” Howard Taft for a Million-Points-of-Light–powered raft.
Any two items of choice apparel (coats, stockings, pants) for Joyce Carol Oates’s mocking glance.
One of those hard-to-believe jobs (gaffer? third mate?) for a buffalo-herd gate.
Today’s sorrows for tomorrow’s.
Overheard speech by Shakespeare when he was drunk and distracted (minor quotes) for you-can’t-really-say-that-about-Zeppelin redacted liner notes.
Some bullshit homeroom teacher no one wants for a home-run hitter who also bunts.
“Hey, choose me” pandering for some woozy meandering.
Holly round the house for a Muhammad Ali roundhouse.
This nearly spent pen for some I-have-no-idea-where-the-time-went Zen.
The porn version of The Little Engine That Could for the possibility of making good.
A “Death, where is thy sting?” tattoo for, I don’t know, something taboo.
A table at any of the nearby Benihanas for ten iguanas.
A too-sweet dessert—say, a snickerdoodle—for a too-precious craft-piece—say, a wicker poodle.
A Roman brick ruin for a romantic shoo-in.
Someone mistaking me for Lance Armstrong (“Hi, Lance!”) for silence.
A Fujitsu waterproof shower phone (or a dour crone) for an hour alone.
Some honest-to-God (God? You bet) belief for some debt relief.
The freakish good luck of Arthur Conan Doyle for, fuck, anyone loyal.
Fred Astaire for bus fare.
My two-timin’ great-uncle for Simon & Garfunkel.
A bought-in-the-Market-Square mini-drum for the bare minimum.
My favorite Yeti for Dave Righetti.
A thoughtless—uh-oh!—clown for a throwdown.
Any kind of already-banned quota for Manny Mota.
My iPhone, my Swiffer, my fogless mirror, anything that is, I swear to you, shoddy, for a “Whatever, it was hot when I brought it to you” toddy.
John Travolta, Gabe Kaplan, or Lawrence Hilton-Jacobs (really, any Welcome Back, Kotter entertainer) for a Bangladeshi otter trainer.
An almond steamer for a lemur.
Some long-suppressed gossip about former Baltimore Mayor Kurt (which is how he still likes to be addressed) Schmoke for your best joke.
A major-sized mystery caper for a plagiarized History paper.
The ghost of Truman for some roasted cumin.
Anything from a church (the altar, a splash of Holy Water, the wood pews) for some good news.
Anything reckoned dear for a second beer.
The dropping of charges (reckless endangerment, indecent exposure) for closure.
A “Dear Twit” letter for something a bit better.
The less-than-distinguished GOP field for a DiCaprio biopic: Leo, Revealed.
The blessèd (I do reckon) dead for your second-best bed.
A drawer of dimes for some more rhymes.
A veiled promise of matrimony from Mr. Met (“I do, but not yet”) for a true tête-à-tête.
The righteous man’s path (Thank Christ!) for the aftermath of a bank heist.
Bounty, the quicker picker-upper, for some no-count count’s Brie-with-liquor-kicker supper.
A cup of roux for a schtup or two.
A battle-tested cry (“Let us in!”) for the rest of my medicine.
A brand-new wok for Lou Brock.
An ain’t-I-wild, flapper-style milieu for a childnapper who aims to steal you.
A complicated fate (healthy, books well reviewed, but penniless, and stuck on a street corner, forced to beg, alone) for a megaphone.
A game of catch for an aimless letch.
The bark of a seal for anything real.
Faye D
unaway for a foreign—“How you say?”—runaway.
A staggering (“Just one last swig”) Billy Joel for a big chili bowl.
A “Baby baby what’s the matter?” kiss for that or this.
My ex-girlfriend (a pill-popper, a lout, a jaw-clencher) for a kill-or-be-killed proper outlaw adventure.
These constant cries of “Why, God?” for a colossal-sized tripod.
Anyone from the rougher parts of Paris for anyone dumb enough to spare us.
Some this-is-so-good-you-must’ve-made-it-in-culinary-school chocolate for a multi-tool player who’ll walk a lot.
A tipsy poodle for some dipsy-doodle.
Any ridiculous status (executive! platinum! wined and dined! preferred!) for a kind word.
The straight and narrow for a great sombrero.
from Poetry Northwest
LAWANDA WALTERS
* * *
Goodness in Mississippi
after Gwendolyn Brooks’s “We Real Cool,”
with thanks to Terrance Hayes
My friend said I wasn’t fat but she was, and we
would go on that way, back and forth. She was my first real
friend, the kind who changes everything. Her mother was so cool,
didn’t shave down there for the country club pool where we
sat beside her. I saw a gleam of her secret, silver hair and was left
dreaming of lime floating in a clear drink. I started saying hi at school
and people smiled back. Smile first, my friend said, and we
were a team. The cheerleaders who would always lurk
by the field, showing off their muscled legs—of late
I’d hardly noticed them. We talked about art, we
attended science camp in Gulfport. That’s where her mother got struck
by a car the next year. She must have thrown the new baby straight
as a football to save her. Their family was on vacation, and we
found out at Sunday School, waiting for the choir to sing.
She was so good she comforted me. People saying, “It’s just a sin,”
her mom like Snow White under glass, red lipstick, platinum hair we
knew was genetic. You’ll still look young, I said. I think you’re thin.
