These poems are published connected to the partnership between the Mid-Atlantic Review and Howard University and a recent event for the Howard community.
 

Imagine
for Natalie Clay

Imagine life is a color, a color named imagine—
a color so elusive you cannot describe it—a color
that appears different in different light. Somedays
you may say imagine looks gray, dappled, a horse
cantering across a field of timothy, wind-in-its mane-
and tail. Imagine that horse snorting and stomping,
steam blowing from its nostrils. In another light, the gray
may seem so pale that imagine is lavender, early spring
mornings, a cool breeze, a promise of forget-me-nots
and bluebells. Or imagine might be sand, fine-grained crystals
of glass and shells on a beach. Imagine the soothing lapping
of the waves as they ebb and flow to the shore. Imagine
is not unlike a dream—one that lingers long after waking—
one that lets you know you’ve been touched by something.
 

Odyssey

I was an orphan
before I was born,
which is not to say
I didn’t have parents,
but that I could sense,
in my unformed cells,
in the whooshing
of blood passing
from placenta to me,
that this would be
my life’s work:
to tether myself
to something,
to find solid ground,
that my odyssey
would be one of searching
for ground that holds,
unscorched
when hot winds
sweep through me,
like fire, threatening.
 

The Smile

Who are these people
who jump out of cars
on Georgia Avenue in mid-day
near the Wonder Bread Building,
where, if the wind blows just right,
you’d swear you can smell bread
baking, though that factory
shut down over 40 years ago?
Who are these people
who jump out of cars, black
shiny sedans or minis, wearing
ski masks, who jump out of cars
in mid-day and punch a skinny kid
from Brooklyn minding his own
business listening to his tunes,
walking down Georgia Avenue?
And who are these people
who jump out, punch him, stab
him, throw him to the ground,
all for his $1000 jacket—the one
his parents gave him for Christmas—
and you can almost imagine them beaming
when he opened that gift because
they knew how much their son,
their only son, had wanted that jacket
and how much that skinny kid
from Brooklyn’s parent’s loved
him, and how they wanted one thing,
and one thing only—to see that smile,
that smile of his you’d want too
if you’d seen it. So I ask again, who—
who are these people who need a jacket
more than they need a smile on a skinny kid
from Brooklyn walking down Georgia Avenue
in mid-day, who jump out of cars, punch him,
stab him, throw him to the ground and never
give a second thought, not one second thought
to that smile or his parents when they hear
what happened to their son, their only son?
 

Susan Bucci Mockler’s poetry has appeared in a number of literary journals, including the Mid-Atlantic Review, Maryland Literary Review, peachvelvet, Maximum Tilt, Pilgrimage Press, Crab Orchard Review, Poet Lore, The Northern Virginia Review, Gargoyle, The Delmarva Review, The Beltway Poetry Quarterly, The Cortland Review, The Paterson Literary Review, Lunch Ticket, and Voices in Italian Americana, as well as several anthologies. Her full-length poetry collection, Covenant (With) was published by Kelsay books in 2022. She teaches writing at Howard University in Washington, D.C.

Featured image in this post is, “Field of Timothy – geograph.org.uk” by Derek Harper, license creative commons via Wikimedia Commons