Hello, Thanks for Calling by Shahzeen Nasim

my mother's first email was a scribbled ad
she wrote, Hello thanks for calling
I am leaving. Everything must go.
She left me a ricecooker and a banjo.

Glottal is a Word by Shahzeen Nasim

“Glottal” is a word
I can’t swallow. I see my reflection
underneath your eyelashes, I swallow
hard, swallow two round pigeons.
Their feathers wade in my spit.
My mouth can’t contort
for all those sounds in Arabic
but with you, it is not a voluntary response.
I swallowed my banana whole when you said “good morning”
I can’t conjugate the verbs tossed in my direction
It isn’t meant for sense. We do not translate
into another mother tongue, we do not translate one another.
Instead, I learn your dawn’s routine and practice
the bristle of your lashes in my own language.

apologies

there’s a limit to how long

I can keep saying I’m sorry I’m sorry

until the words start to taste like sand

and I’m huddled under a bridge in

broad daylight.  I’m sorry but isn’t good

enough, it doesn’t make the magnets
in my belly start to pull themselves out.

The river is swimming next to me

and I’m thinking how the metals in water

are suffocating the fish, whole schools

of them, sputtering.  Gills clogged. 

Floating never felt this guilty.

  All I want

is for the metal in my bones to know

that your sentiment is real and the

sediment in the river will one day

collect itself before a dam or a boulder

and will grow so heavy.

When we weigh

ourselves we won’t be able to tell

what is us and what is all of the metal

we carry around because no one
is sorry enough, sorry down to the 

iron in the center of blood cells,

mercury in tuna steaks, lead in the

paint on kids plastic toys, fertilizers

in storm drains, the earring I once 

swallowed.

Sand is just a glass

bottle hit against a boulder a thousand

million times, what happens when we 

say I’m sorry I’m sorry over and over

Incomplete Commercials by Kate O'Brien

A robber'd like the look of—

solitude. 

No where else is safe. 

Every neighborhood calls out:

Relapse.   

He will find himself reaching for gold watches,

for diamonds, 

for flat screens,

for safe dials,

for mirrors. Again.  

But really it's not

his fault. 

Sometimes, someone thrusts a ski mask in our hands, says

"take." And we do.

Take, for instance, 

the guy in the Brinks Home Security commercial.

One minute, he's a jogger

who leans down to tie his shoe.

The next, he kicks a door in.

     

One minute, your shoelace is undone. 

The next, you're doing 35 for attempted home invasion.

One minute, you are someone's doodle. 

The next, you are a composite sketch. 

We are all victims

of robbery. We could happen to anyone.

Do Not Honor Me by Cyrus Vastola

Fly little bee—back to your hive

Do not honor me—this I don’t deserve

For though you give me honey

And spread the flowers we  adore

In my haste I will honor you

With only a slap—forgive me

And my humanity for not thinking more.

My Mother's Underwear by Sam Fox

My mother’s underwear
Ready to fold—next to mine
Was to be avoided—at all costs.

Doubtless—they had touched
Doubtless—would they again—still
I could not bear—the delicacy.

Prima Mad by Dana Nichols

In village scenes Esmeralda, Giselle, Nikiya—they leave us

How often I have wanted

To be a Prima gone mad

For my breath to be the breath

Sinking and rocking the bosom

Pleading to take an indulgent step—

Half balletic foot—falling stone dead—

Body—collapsible only by fluid delirium

Never was there a woman so pathetic

As a Prima gone mad—her loss circled

In steps and gaping mouths

Silent claps and sentenced gasps—

A broken face—sweat powdered pale

Bunn crimped sprawls; wild hair—

The Gamer by Julia Carson

Feet firmly entangled in blankets

Fingers racing thumbs

Body still

Mind sprinting

You say I'm wasting my life

I ask which one

Strangers Don't Mourn by Emily Mayer

Should I call you sir?


You, soldier
of bleeding skull
fractured moments on my computer
my two front steps
the street where I played hide and seek

There is a war
ripping through Oakland
bleeding cannonball tongues onto my lap
I watch you collapse, almost like cloud
slow motion soft
upon pavement riddled with my fingerprints

It's almost
as if
we were touching.

Dawn by Yvonne Medina

She sits at her loom in the sky.

Snow sticks to her eyelashes

and streaks her raven hair.

She takes a skein of sorrow

dawn’s early blue

weaves a bit of wistfulness

then leaves the threads undone.

Her sigh becomes a cloud

and the cloud sings with rain

upon the earth miles below

so much heavenly pain.

The Corn and the Windowshade by Dan Wriggins

The corn and the windowshade
are the loudest things this morning —
unless you count the sound
of yeast in a bowl on the shelf
or of snowdrifts melting
or colts turning
into horses.

Summer Cicada by Sam Fox

Summer cicada,
lay your blunt body
                            on my windowsill.

Solidarity,
I might join you still.

Room and Board by Mary Buchanan

If a church mouse came calling

she would be scolded here

for rowdy behavior

for this house has fragile bones

and we are not to disturb it.

Night comes unannounced.

A moth is drawn to my lampshade

and I am glad for the company.

She Dealt Her Pretty Words Like Blades by Farida Esaa

She dealt her pretty words like blades

to strike 

the gut, the temple

the tender spot 

above the collar bone

with a force 

that left you aching

for more.

She wore her pretty smile like pearls

sensuously about her neck

and dangling from her ears.

There was no knowing 

their smoothness

in your own fingers.

She kept her thoughts on shelves

like porcelain from Spain

and glass perfume bottles from Egypt—

out of reach from clumsy hands—

for you to prove you are adroit

enough to feel their weight

in your hands

and not let them fall.

Transition by Janela Harris

I used to be all

silver jewelry and

shy friendships and

the kind of unusual

that is incremental

and personal

and hard to hear, alone.

I was poised

for many moments

and I said many things. Now,

I’ve come to believe

that readiness is only graceful

in brief moments. Now,

I feel a hardness

in my stomach, and

I look around too much.

I have done unnoble things:

I’ve spit

and hid

and let myself forget

about thoughtfulness.

But I have also noticed

the curling edges of photographs

and courage

and I recognize voices

I didn’t know before.