It Is Not in the Sky

There is a city in which I stop
coughing, the dust
no longer plumes, the road
does not crack open
from heat of a thousand suns —
A city beside the sea
where anyone can swim.

Searchlights, sirens —
these are unknown there.
My throat does not go raw,
choke, my hands don’t tremble.
Houses do not collapse
into the street.

There is such a city — I know
it well. Just last night
I visited — just last night
as moonglade shimmered
land and sea and my lover
held my head to her breast.

Lemonade

When I visited my father
in the place where he would take
his last nap,
on one of his better days
we walked to the cafeteria
where we each had a glass
of fresh lemonade.
Earlier, he’d flirted
with the nurses. One of his
better days. And even then,
though I refused to say it
out loud, even to myself,
I knew he would not come home.

In my yard, an oak tree
has more dead branches
than live ones.
My neighbor points this out.
The tree may need
to be taken down,
but neither of us says
these exact words out loud.
There are still a few high
clusters of green leaves.

There is a war
which seems to have no end,
though of course it will end,
and the survivors
will pick through the rubble,
and someone will set up a tent
among the ruins
where they will serve lemonade,
and I wish I could tie
this up nicely, end the poem here.

But people go on dying.
Trees outlive us but not forever.
And people kill and love,
plant trees, make lemonade
only to run out of sugar.
And how this ends
everyone knows
but no-one says it out loud.

This House

A house of four rooms
rests in four different places.
There is a mountain
in one. In another
the sea. I keep
lost objects in the third.
The fourth is where I sleep.

When you come to me
in clothes the colour of earth,
next time — bring your violin.

Here is where all roads
intersect. Here all borders
are erased. There is fog,
first. Next, lightning
in sheets, it keeps
on forever. Smell of rain.
Taste of hidden pines.

When you leave, after
a swallow of red wine —
this house will follow.

Wherever you go, this house.

W. Luther Jett is a native of Montgomery County, Maryland and a retired special educator. His poetry has been published in numerous journals as well as several anthologies. He is the author of five poetry chapbooks: “Not Quite: Poems Written in Search of My Father”, (Finishing Line Press, 2015), and “Our Situation”, (Prolific Press, 2018), “Everyone Disappears” (Finishing Line Press, 2020), “Little Wars” (Kelsay Books, 2021), and “Watchman, What of the Night?” (CW Books, 2022). A full-length collection, “Flying to America” is scheduled for release in the spring of 2024, from Broadstone Press.

Image: Matthew T Rader, https://matthewtrader.com, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons. Author photo by Serena Agusto-Cox.

My Sister Describes Cooking with Our Mom

It was her job to put the lettuce and other
veggies in a big pot of cold saltwater.

“We have to get all the bugs off,” Mom
would say. A school teacher and farm

wife, she knew where things came from,
that the detritus of the past had to be washed

free. My sister stole her best silver spoons
to dig a swimming pool in the front yard.

She was going to line it with trash bags.
Mom used to pay her a quarter to do chores.

Once, when no one else was home,
my sister got me to help move all the furniture

out of Mom and Dad’s room and switch
it with hers. When they returned, she refused

to switch it back. In the kitchen, frog legs
frying in an electric skillet for Dad.

My sister would eat pancakes with no syrup,
fried bologna with mustard sandwiches,

tuna salad, potted meat sandwiches. Helping mom
bake her birthday cake. All of this was when

my sister was little. By the fourth grade, mom
was too sick to cook much anymore. My

memories are fragmentary at best. I rarely cook,
myself.

I’m Never Going to Know You Now
from a line by Elliott Smith

You were young and bright, heart
full of butterflies, long walks
in the evening. A new boy at the movies
every Friday night. All grown, you tried.
What a disappointment life can be.
You opened your heart to the world.
but it forsook you, like a bad boyfriend.
But you kept going to his house, as if
this time, it would be different.
You had a bad husband at home,
one kid grown, two that needed you.
You didn’t have a choice. I was all noise
and runny nose, bored in front of the TV.
You were ice cream with onions. A walker
that didn’t help. I would scream in your face
and run and lock myself in the bathroom.
I didn’t have a choice. Now, you’ll never
know me. Single dad to a beautiful
daughter who looks just like you.
I don’t have your disease, so neither
will she. You might’ve liked me,
if you’d had the chance.

Raised on a rice and catfish farm in eastern Arkansas, CL Bledsoe is the author of more than thirty books, including the poetry collections Riceland, The Bottle Episode, and his newest, Having a Baby to Save a Marriage, as well as his latest novels If You Love Me, You’ll Kill Eric Pelkey and The Devil and Ricky Dan. Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his daughter.

Image: Steff-X-FR, CC BY-SA 3.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Find the Door

Deeper and darker I fall
Into a rabbit hole that’s supposed to feel like home
Tried squeezing into those ballet flats for months on end
Blisters remind me that I didn’t blend
Half of a person hoping I still have my soul
Half of a person tripping every time they gasp at the differences in what we know
Crumbling at their feet
The mountain is gone there’s only debris
No more words coming out of my mouth
Blaming it on my upbringing from the south
Wishing we were all just misted tones
To me words always hurt more than broken bones
Only half of myself when I lie on the floor
Craving a vacuum to suck out the dirt I’ve worn
That other half of me sits waiting for a letter of acceptance
For proof that I am one to be reckoned
Waiting waiting waiting
I know how to read and write
I want something to love that doesn’t bite
Growing up hurts but stretching might make me less uptight
Chasing dreams or running from the past?
Walking around four limbs in casts
My thoughts sure do run fast
I’ve been molded to my own fear
For years
Judging could be a comfort
An excuse to not tumble
Take off this blindfold please
No one cares about the seed in your teeth
Were your insides always this parched?
feels like there’s no place to park
I’ll forget about that other half soon
Twenty-four
Find the door

Celebrating Shabbat Alone

She lives in a palace of glass
Surrounded by the reflections of her past
She lives in a room full of friends
That turn strangers when grief comes in
Her parents wanted her to grow up and go
Learn how to make a new place a home
But when her world comes crashing in
Her circle doesn’t know how to mend
Do they just come from different ends ?

They don’t know what it’s like to have lost
All that you love to a monstrous cost
Maybe they read about it in school
Or traveled and gave history a view
Like wearing a hundred layers in summers’ heat
Burning up but the zipper won’t let
Underneath the coat lies her true tether
But they can’t see, they come from different weather

Sara Grace Smith is an aspiring writer from Nashville, Tennessee. Sara works full time as an ICU nurse in Washington. When she isn’t working as a nurse or writing poetry, she can be found at a yoga class or spending time with her five in their 1880s home. Still working on establishing herself as a writer, Sara mainly focuses her efforts on poetry but hopes to one day create a fiction series.

Image: PhotoCave, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons