I have an urge to preserve today, boil the remaining fruits to their sticky sugars, remove
the pits and seeds, smash flesh add pectin and lemon juice, pour and seal, save the savor
for another day less soaked in light, when I cannot find warmth in any crevice or window when every creek runs cold.
I will have one jar left labeled, sealed on a shelf so I can break open and taste stone fruit in August heat.
Poem Waiting at a Car Dealership While my Wife Buys her Dream Truck
Tom, our salesman, says he’s worked here 46 years, grew up in Raleigh, NC during the “Jim Crow’” South, watched Black soldiers come home from Vietnam who could not dine with their White comrades brought take out containers to their shared car.
Tom says his White neighbors were nice enough. Relatives were savage though, would chase him and his brother. He learned to hide and wait till the mean folks left, then the parents would invite the boys inside for peanut butter crackers.
What an American affliction to fall in love with a truck or SUV, the allure of a home on wheels, in a country full of roads, acquire dignity on credit. Tom said some customers ask for a few minutes with their trade-in vehicle to say goodbye, sees them talking to the car with tears in their eyes.
He says, you really never know until you walk in someone’s shoes. Or four wheeled dreams. He had a minivan once with his wife. They sold it wholesale, but first they raised their kids took vacations in that car parked in their driveway for a private place to talk.
They spent the whole night before the car went to the new buyer, reminiscing, hoping it ends up with a good owner.
Jessica Genia Simon began writing poetry at age seven. As a teenager based in Rockville, MD, she competed and won a spot on the Brave New Voices D.C. National Youth Poetry Slam Team. She earned a B.A. in English and Textual Studies and Policy Studies at Syracuse University and her M.S. in Education from University of Pennsylvania. She works at a gun violence prevention nonprofit in D.C. and lives with her wife, daughter, and orange tabby cat in Silver Spring, Maryland. Built of All I Shape and Name (Kelsay Books, 2023) is her first poetry collection.
The Beckoning
One evening when the sky was a dark opal blue
And the gnarled trees
Swayed and bent in the deep wind,
The boxwood scented air and the
Ozoned mist dappled my skin.
I walked amid the graves, thinking of Dad,
And the soldier from World War I,
And the infant with the stone lamb for a grave,
And wondered – Where would I go?
Would I join them in another realm or
Another time and place?
Or were they truly ash and dust now,
Covered with dirt and grass and
Bouquets of faded flowers?
Then, for an instant I knew, as
I gazed into the opal blue and we merged.
I heard the wind and the mist, the sky and the moon.
They called to me, gently, quietly, from far away.
Then, I was back. Kneeling at my father’s grave, removing
The dead flowers, laying down the new.
Sarah Kristensen is a Washington, D.C.-based poet and short story writer. Her work has been published in Scattered Thoughts and Writer’s Digest. She is a graduate of American University.
Image: “Kullu Valley from Rohtang Pass 2, India” by Vyacheslav Argenberg under Creative Commons Attribution 4.0 International license.
Sabbath I
Every moment,
in the waning sun
is christened with the possibility
of rest, with the knowledge
that another is worthy
of the green’s blessing,
with the delight of light diffused
beneath broad fig leaves.
In the garden box
bees alight on flowering mint,
as sparrows search the undergrowth
for something to add to their nest.
They never ask.
They do not need to—
for what is provided, is provided to all
in the green’s stillness.
The Dancer
He said he does not like ballet.
But once the camera starts
he leaps and turns like the Nutcracker Prince,
a rainbow blur of motion and intensity
in a Christmas pajama adorned performance.
The joy of movement and freedom
radiates from his eyes with every turn.
Each outstretched arm flourishes a hand
reaching for the next possibility.
The thump of solidity in a little boy body
each landing an announcement:
“Here I am!”
And though I may have forgotten it
there is no mistaking the moment of grace
as his feet hit the ground
and he wraps his arms around his body
closes his eyes and spins,
not with abandon, but with the comfort of knowing
he is loved.
Sean Felix (he/his/him) is a citizen poet from Washington DC. His first book Did You Even Know I Was Here? was released in 2019, and he’s read with The Inner Loop and Poetry on the Pike literary reading series. He has published poems in Bloodroot Lit Journal, Sunday Mornings at the River Fall Anthology, and Beyond the Veil’s Mental Health Poetry Anthology and the Haiku Society of America’s Mentorship Student Anthology. Sean is a haiku poet, who practices a meditative practice of creating haibun from haiku. Listen to his podcast recording for The Inner Loop Radio, Taking Back Time, on Soundcloud or iTunes. Visit his website or follow him on Instagram.
Image: The Bee Dance – Die Bienentanz-Skulptur, Hohen Neuendorf bei Berlin by Sludge G under Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.0 Generic license.
I want to write you a friendship poem but it wants clichés: calls in the middle of the night, laughs over a late drink.
Instead there’s this cheese. I ordered it affumicato (smoked) at the market, felt brava speaking Italian.
But the aproned man cut down a giant, stagionato (aged) cheese, hung from the ceiling over a display for tourists I scooted between as I played the role of signora.
He sliced the cheese, chunks crumbling to the side. I asked for only half, he sighed.
I kept half of the half, gave you the other quarter wrapped in plastic bags. Enough for two meals!
You sent me a photo of you and your husband smiling as big as the cliché I wanted to write to ringraziarti for you.
Chloe Yelena Miller’s poetry collection, Viable, was published by Lily Poetry Review Books (2021) and her poetry chapbook, Unrest, was published by Finishing Line Press (2013). Miller is a recipient of a 2020 and 2022 DC Arts and Humanities Fellowship (Individuals) grant. She teaches writing at American University, and Politics & Prose Bookstore, as well as privately. Miller is the co-founder of Brown Bag Lit; she teaches and organizes events for them. Contact her and read some of her work at www.chloeyelenamiller.com / https://twitter.com/ChloeYMiller
my brain guides the fingers each a hand patterns sequences of line hardly a chord for or against and the surprising key change
my eye leads scouts four beats in advance of the fingers deaf to what they strike phrasing expression substitution dynamics
fingers track each note an arabesque of positions each note detached from the prior in a soliloquy of measures the expanse of one beat’s syncopation
j s bach genius unfurled in the music breathing my heart wanders the baroque splendor
the music mine by performance the muscles the arcs of bone the bent of elbows the audience
late night you tube
rambling through the rubble that leads to the gates of elusive sleep snack bowl empty remote in hand under my wandering thumb I scroll down fast forward to
elephant child lost unheard his squeaky trumpet from within the sinkhole but village children beseech the elders to secure the harness thirty with the thickest rope followed by links of makeshift cablechains
village upon village gather to rescue children lower water toss bundled grass I am the elephant child the elders’ makeshift chain
on the fifth day five hundred men haul chant tow the throbbing line ears out first the youngster his trunk next rears jubilant amid midday shouts of “hurre hurre” I am the fifth day I am theshouts of hurre pause click “home” “search” enter “downhill”
I am the colombian mountains I am skateboarders racing the snake tilt twist turns of my ungraded challenges the thin air the sweeping tenderness of studded greenways at the heights I want to shrug off my keen crew our ballet squats on the wide bends crouching at the waist for the long straight hauls shifting the rear wheels our arms outstretched braking through the convolutions of my traffic below
the tree line my racers skirt a motorbike a bus holy mother of god deliver us past the on coming line of cars no officials no saw horses no signs no one
officiates the death defying drop over shattered patches over pooling waters over pebble filled repairs under the murked shadows of overgrown jungle into the shocked blinding sun my race ends at the first stop
browse search “uphill” I am the craggy foothills of the french alps I am fuel injected an engine screaming cocooned in a lattice of welded pipes coated with red neoprene my earlier scampers scale the dirt packed granite outcroppings tearing through the yellow taped pathways
my chrome plated double exhaust pipes gush a basso profundo of guttural splendor my oversized wheels tear the hillside dirts into a cloud of brown euphoria
nearing the top I am tossed backward by the failure of my incline I am turned by a tree trunk spun to tumble against the layered face of rock I land upright swerve to grip again the climb I gun the open throttle my white helmet strap tightens with piercing whines
the last assault slight of the perpendicular leans into the height’s plateau my rear wheels catch on a big surface root I tumble forward plow a new furrow into the meadow
click on “fios” press tuner “off” press recliner remote to “lift” switch heating pad to “off” unplug earphones click sliding balcony doors to “locked” turn on oxygenator and c-pap machine
seat face mask press “go” dial to level “3” secure knee guard tighten hip brace rumple the double bed covers close eyes breath “out pain” “peace in” “out pain” “peace in”
let not our heart be troubled
by the burning ganglia the evening total pool
by the wayward hysteria the gentle offshore breeze
by the escalated heart beat the floating dove’s feather
by the avalanche upheaval the last of the sun the first of the stars on the still water
by the biliously woeful cries the rising tide lifts the clear pool the white feather the the ebbing light the inlayed stars into the embrace of the inland sea
took my breath away
remember my father heating the water in the copper stack in the kitchen over a bed of blue flames – behind the stove but it was never enough
two kettles filled with tap water would wait one whistling on top of the stove then poured into the bath around my feet careful not to burn but to embellish the milky soap dissolve
sometimes it was not enough mother with one arm balancing between the cast iron tub and the heavey kettle pouring to make it better as the snow storm shook the window frames the wind whistled around the roof
her flesh fell to a conclusion over me submerged the kettle on the floor she would kneel by the tub reach in with her soapy hand to touch
Craig E. Flaherty, writer of poems, reader at poetry groups, publisher of Coastline Window Poems, The Nature of Light, The Glossy Family, presenter at the Takoma Park Thursday Poetry Reading, poetry group leader, member of Writing a Village. His poetry has appeared in Viator and The Raven’s Perch. A lifelong performer of church music, organist, carilloneur, pianist with Dotke Piano Trio, husband, father, grandfather, and accompanist to Jordyn Flaherty.
Image: https://pxhere.com/en/photo/1546039, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons
