Cut and Run

1.
Faced with a mango’s
sweetness, I recall
how my aunt would slice
the flame-hued ovoid—

cross-hatching sections,
flipping the soft skin
inside-out, each piece
offering itself

to my lips or spoon,
its flavor quickly
pierced by incisors,
then pulled, scraped away.

2.
Faced with a torn
seam, I recall
her blanket stitch.

Her needle ran
ahead, then turned
off to one side,

making a loop,
each stitch a catch,
cloth sections pulled

together while
drawing apart.
I ran with it.

A Dish

To soothe your anxious temperament and spirit,
consider, for your last thought of the day,
Chana Masala.
Sheyna Maydele?
No, not a pretty girl — Indian chickpeas,
with garlic, ginger, spices, ripe tomatoes,
more calming than a Sheyna Maydele.
I’m sure this will intrigue you, summon you,
settle your dreams. No need to think of leaving
when there’s Chana Masala.
Do you mean
I should believe in seasonings and salt?
Maybe. Whatever recipe you follow,
love is a messy dish. This one is neater.

Claudia Gary lives near Washington DC and teaches workshops on Villanelle, Sonnet, Natural Meter, Poetry vs. Trauma, etc., at The Writer’s Center (writer.org), currently through live teleconferencing. Author of Humor Me (2006) and several chapbooks, most recently Genetic Revisionism (2019), she has been a semifinalist for the Anthony Hecht Prize (Waywiser) and received an Honorable Mention in the 2021 Able Muse book contest. She is also a health science writer, visual artist, and composer of tonal chamber music and art songs. Her chapbooks are available via the email address at this link: pw.org/content/claudia_gary. 

Image: Billjones94, CC BY-SA 4.0 https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Going Off Meds

The first day is fine. You think, I can do
this. I’m better like this. It doesn’t matter,
because you went off for a reason.
You can’t afford the meds or—what no one
talks about—the med checks, office visits
whenever something goes wrong, because
if they answered your question on the phone,
they couldn’t charge you, though some still
do. Your stomach is tingling, that little warning
that things are about to get weird. You feel
like you need a nap, and it never goes away,
but not that first day. You hope
going off isn’t as bad as getting on was.
The sweats, the shakes, the nausea,
the falling asleep so you go to bed at 8
and then lie there all night and can’t even
form decent thoughts. The little widgies
you don’t tell anyone about. For the longest
time, you thought it was mice playing on
your bookshelves, birds fluttering away
before you can look. You’re waiting
for the molasses to reform, the swamps
of sadness to drag you down. This
is what keeps you from dying, living
with these things. But your life is not worth
the psychiatrist’s time. You fill in mood
trackers, try to keep busy, how is this
any different from any other day? Until two,
three, four days go by, and you find yourself
sitting in the same chair for four hours
and don’t know where the time went.
You can cry again. You’ve never stopped.

The First Man

The first man, falling to concrete, cap pushed back over peppered hair.
The first man, anointing the audience with his cup of bourbon and Coke.
The first man, smiling as he bullshits.

The first man, fire in the clouds.
The first man, a head shaking until sparks ignite the rice field.
The first man, shoveling ashes into the flames.

The first man, telling me he misses me.
The first man, thinking everything is forgiven.
The first man, a shit-eating grin.

The first man, tasting sweet dust.
The first man, a forest of brambles and pain I’ve been lost in since I was a boy.
The first man, someday the last.

A Prayer for Arkansas

Here is how you find the weight
of the soul: ask the highest bidder
how much the markup will be.
Check the preacher’s pockets before
he leaves the pulpit. No man sweats
like that unless he’s had a taste
of hellfire. Used car salesmen
wish they had as loyal a flock.
The man who cuts your checks has
his fingers on the scale. If you quiet
the red rage that seethes in place
of your heart, you still won’t get
to heaven.

Just for a Little While

These days—just for a little while, I
promise—I don’t want you to see me

as I am. Mornings, I keep a fan in front
of my face so it blows an ocean breeze

into the hallway. You say that’s too
exotic. Okay! I jump out of bed—thanks

to the cattle prod on a timer—and jazz-hands
to the bathroom, where I practice my

quiet—just kidding. It’s Cats,
of course! I know how much you love

the theater. For breakfast, the most lavish
spreads the government can buy. All

of it, to keep you smiling. I hired a man
to risk his life to bring you an exotic

orchid, and it’s totally fine that you forgot
to water it. I’ll jog to work because

of something you read on Twitter. Afternoons,
let me remind you how much there is

to love in the world. There’s me, for one.
And lots more, but also me. If that’s okay.

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 Goodbye, Mr. Lonely and The Saviors. Bledsoe lives in northern Virginia with his daughter.

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

making mythology on an island in the Ionian Sea

when the parea this time
three sympaticos decided
to spend a week on the island
Lefkada the cousins balked
so Italian but then convinced
us to travel there by bus they
left first stayed in guestquarters
at the port close to the bus
depot we rented a three
bedroom Airbnb other side
of towncenter so easily
walkable from oneplace
to the other the cousins
eyes bigger than Cyclops
questioned what do you do
with all those rooms a capella
we crooned we dream and drove
these dissembling Greeks
into the hills to a fly me bar
for sunset the cocktails and couches
comforted in the morning we were
shaken from our beds aftershock
from the mainland no no get up
and go the gods want to play

that which stands
a poem braided with text from Gertrude Stein
(eleventh stanza of Tender Buttons Rooms)

she had no choice
she the tin swelling
with muffin his erection
seer fed to bed
his daughter Pelopia
the mask silencing his exaltation
no diversion that boy cooking
to be cousin killer with Clytemnestra

tryst
after “Lunch.”—Gertrude Stein

nuncheon luncheon launch
what transpired with Gertrude
Stein’s skate break did it brake
stopped at a west end of board
dominoes with generous wings
old mountain claimed wet clothes
she couldn’t put her toe or tooth
in silken panties the noonish
fantasy of teeth swimming away

skates have grinding plates
bottom feeders they taste sweet
sex is electric

Karren LaLonde Alenier is author of eight poetry collections—including Looking for Divine Transportation (The Bunny and the Crocodile Press), winner, 2002 Towson University Prize for Literature; The Anima of Paul Bowles (MadHat Press), 2016 top staff pick, Grolier Bookshop (Boston) and in 2021 how we hold on (Broadstone Books). Her opera Gertrude Stein Invents a Jump Early On with William Banfield premiered in New York City in 2005 and was favorably reviewed by The New York Times. She actively promotes contemporary literature through The Word Works. Visit https://www.alenier.com/

Image: Jebulon, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons