San Diego Poetry Annual

SSAANN DDIIEEGGOO PPOOEETTRRYY AANNNNUUAALL 22002200--2211

SAN DIEGO ENTERTAINMENT + ARTS GUILD GARDEN OAK PRESS RAINBOW, CALIFORNIA sdeag.org sandiegopoetryannual.com gardenoakpress.com

San Diego Entertainment & Arts Guild (SDEAG) in association with the San Diego Poetry Annual and Garden Oak Press 1953 Huffstatler St., Suite A Rainbow, CA 92028 sdeag.org sandiegopoetryannual.com [email protected] (760) 728-2088

SDEAG is a 501(c)(3) non-profit public charity.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means without the express written consent of the Publisher.

First published by Garden Oak Press on March 1, 2021

ISBN-13: 9798592861581

Printed in the United States of America

The views expressed in this anthology of poems are solely those of the respective poets and do not necessarily reflect the views of the Publisher and the Publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

CONTENTS

• POEMS 1•

WILLIAM SCOTT GALASSO The Year We Never Saw Coming 4 KATH ABELA WILSON Mary Blue 5 SUSAN D. WALTER How Touching 6 D’ELLEN the sea gives 7 BONA M. SANTOS dandelions 7 ELIZABETH YAHN WILLIAMS I Have Loved Mornings 8 ANN TWEEDY Blueberries 9 MAJA TROCHIMCZYK Da Capo al Fine 10 WALT STEPAHIN Dream Jobs 11 JAN BEATTY Dream Highway: Quarantine 12 SARAH Z SLEEPER BTS World 13 SONYA SCHNEIDER The Sea 14 NANCY SANDWEISS The Arbiters of Rectitude 15 SANDRA ANFANG Ode to a Deer Carcass at Rush Creek 16 LORRAINE A. PADDEN a faultless sun 17 SALLY SANDLER Requiem for a Season 18 ANNA SANCHEZ Perdón (I am sorry) 19 SUSAN ROGERS In the Midst of Wildfires, Imagine Gardens 20

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LYNDA RIESE My Father’s Children 21 CHRIS ERNEST NELSON Onerous Concord 22 KATHY O’FALLON Rite of Passage 23 JOHNNIERENEE NIA NELSON 2020/Found Poetry on Facebook 24 STEVE MCDONALD And When I Told You the Bushes and Trees 25 MARGARET MCALLISTER Red Rock Concerto 26 SARAH B MARSH-REBELO Demitasse and Music 27 FRED LONGWORTH Calling You Out 28 SYLVIA LEVINSON Waihou Spring Forest 29 TONI LARSON The Bus Driver 30 JEN LAFFLER Mantis 31 MARCYN DEL CLEMENTS and IGNATIUS FAY The New Normal? 32 SHARON LAABS Miramar National Cemetery 33 BRIAN KIRVEN The Coast is Not Clear 34 DEBORAH P KOLODJI ocean breeze 35 CLIFTON KING Looking for Answers in the Night Sky 36 JIM KACIAN An End to Solipsism 37 WENDY JONES No Mud, No Lotus 38 LOIS P. JONES Redwood 39 IBRAHIM IBN SALMA Tree speaks 40

AMEERAH HOLLIDAY When They Turn My Name into a Hashtag 41 CHARLES HARMON Can’t Connect Kyoka and Senryu Sequence 42 JOAN C. FINGON brazen bolt of light 43 KATHY HARMON-LUBER Saguaro 44 MARY HARKER Turned Back 45 DIANA GRIGGS The War Wasn't Difficult for Me 46 TERRI GLASS Unexpected Visitor 47 DIANE GAGE Peaking 48 DANIEL H.R. FISHMAN DJ at Work 49 TRISH DUGGER Short Story of a Long Life 50 CATHERINE DARBY Woven Relations 51 KELLY BOWEN Cancer 52 STELLA BOLOG If Only 53 CLAIRE BLOTTER Out of Darkness 54 DIONNE BLAHA Was That You? 55 BOBBIE JEAN BISHOP Not Far from Home 56 CHARLIE BERIGAN Fireflies 57 PAT ANDRUS After Eating the Novel The Man Who Fell in Love With the Moon by Tom Spanbauer 58 GREGORY LONGENECKER home at last 59

CAROL IRELAND ARCHIBALD Indelibles 60 JANICE ALPER The Singer Sewing Machine 61 SUSAN BLACK ALLEN Like Roses 62 RICHARD L. MATTA Smokey Mirrors 63 MICHAEL HILL Watching Surfers at Ocean Beach 64 MINERVA Jazz Bass King 65 BRANDON CESMAT Second-Hand Body Armor 66 JOAN C. FINGON grandpa 67 CHRISTIAN SANCHEZ How Are You Doing? 68 ANNA ZAPPOLI Little pumpkin from Tim's garden 69 DAN ADAMS “Who the Hell is Frida Kahlo?” 70 JUDY REEVES Watching His Body 71 JEENI CRISCENZO The Little Girl in the Lime-Green Jumper 72 LORRAINE A. PADDEN naked like the garden 74 MARIT ANDERSON Still Standing 75 ROBERT HALLECK The Lily Pulitzer Dress 76 CHRIS WHITNEY A Line Is — 77 LEWIS KRUGLICK Correspondence from Here 78 GREGORY LONGENECKER the wariness 79 LLOYD HILL Sonneteer 80

RON LAUDERBACH Telephone Directory 81 PAM IMPSON Last Dance? 82 JENNIFER MCBROOM Bittersweet Nothings 83 CRAIG COTTER Alex and Me at the Beach as Teenagers 84 JAMES CROAL JACKSON I Always Avoided Landscaping 85 DAVE GILDER The Pigeons of St. Mark’s Square 86 CURRAN JEFFERY Blinded by Youth 87 RON SALISBURY 104th Day of the Shelter in Place with a line from Raymond Chandler’s Red Wind 88 JONATHAN YUNGKANS Like a Night Sound for Which There Is No Explanation 91 DEBBIE HALL After the Circus 92 KATIE MANNING You Smell Like Crayons 93 AMANDA MATTIMOE In This Time, In This World 94 TIM CALAWAY Late Night Snacks (Then & Now) 95 BIL FUHRER Ode to the Onion 96 AL ZOLYNAS The Unthinkable 97 PAUL A. SZYMANSKI Jewelry Box 98 D’ELLEN ash falls 99 NANCY SHIFFRIN Our Broken World Post Pandemic September 2020 100 MARGE PIERCY Where Do They Go? 102

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ANDY PALASCIANO I Have Learned 103 SERETTA MARTIN Letter to Harriet 104 DEBORAH P KOLODJI chorus 105 KAREN KENYON This Wolf 106 JUAN FELIPE HERRERA ICU unit 107 VALARIE HASTINGS Geese, 1968 108 ESTELLE GILSON Soliloquy at 93 109 MARIA MAZZIOTTI GILLAN How to Prepare for a Pandemic 110

• THE KOWIT • INTRODUCTION 113 LIST OF HONOREES 115 THE STEVE KOWIT POETRY PRIZE 2020 VALARIE HASTINGS When Pigs Could Fly 116

RUNNER UP TERRI NICCUM Parenthood³ 118

SECOND RUNNERS UP HARRY GRISWOLD In Front of the Cold Fireplace 120

KARLA MORTON Trying Out My New Superhero Powers After the Bears pass 122

HONORABLE MENTION

SUSAN BROWNE & For God’s Sake, Humming 124 SUSAN BROWNE Here 126 DONALD CLERMONT Apricity 128

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DICK EIDEN East of Hollywood 129 DICK EIDEN Falling Through the Cracks 130 JAMES ELLENBERGER There’s Tunnel Yet at the End of Our Light 132 ALEXIS RHONE FANCHER Identity Theft 134 NUMERTHA GEISINGER Started at the Convent 135 MAI-LON GITTELSOHN Talking to No Purpose 136 JONATHAN GREENHAUSE Between Gazer & Facsimile 137 MOLLY HART Brainbleed 138 VALARIE HASTINGS If Joy Were a Hit and Run 140 VALARIE HASTINGS Love Poem in a Pandemic 142 TRACEY KNAPP When I Am Cold 143 STEVE MCDONALD Erasure 144 JOSEPH D. MILOSCH Her Angel Whispered, Ut Si Vellet 146 MELISSA MCKINSTRY Credence Clearwater Revival 148 PATRICIA AYA WILLIAMS Abilene 149 GARY V. POWELL Perfume 150 KAITLIN REYNOLDS Seeking a Cure for Lovesickness 152 ARIEN REED Gender Keeps Me Awake at Night 154

• NATIVE POETS • TANAYA WINDER Teach Me How to Pray 158

MICHAEL TURNER When Others Suffer, Be with Them 159 WILLOW ROBINSON I’m Strong and Unstable 160 JANESSA PARADA Why don’t you hear me? 161 CONNER CASH Humorous, Loyal, Tall, Brother 162 DARRELL PERALTA Dancing with the Birds 162 TANAYA WINDER When the Stars Fall From the Sky 163 TARAH PARADA Smart, Funny, Beautiful, Kind 164 MARRIANNE DIAZ Preposition Poem 165 WILLIAM DIAZ Raymond Belardes 166 ESPERANZA ORTEGA My Gift from Above 166 WILLIAM DIAZ Sonnet 3 167 KIM SHUCK The Weather is Smoke 168

• POEMS FROM JUVENILE HALL • 169 - 192

• TWO FOR OUR ROAD • INTRODUCTION by BRANDON CESMAT 194 LOVERNE BROWN Two Dog Lovers Sharing a Bus Seat 196 TERRY HERTZLER Perennial 197

• POEMS 2 • MARIA MAZZIOTTI GILLAN East Side High School, Paterson, NJ 200 GREGORY LONGENECKER outliving 201

JANET FOSTER ESL Prayer 202 D’ELLEN Stormy Monday Blues 203 LESLIE FERGUSON Sky Bridge 204 BONA M. SANTOS lady justice 205 DICK EIDEN Landing Patterns 206 MARY DE LA FUENTE When Your Identity is the World 207 CATHERYNNE CRUZ-SCHECKNER (untitled) 208 KEN BUHR Sports Section 209 LAURA BOSS Calls 210 JAN BEATTY Those Night Roads, Wyoming 212 R.J. BLACK So Easy 213 SALLY SANDLER Lesson from a Giant Swallowtail 214 LORRAINE A. PADDEN ashes of roses 215 JIM MORENO huellas in la arena (footprints in the sand) 216 MICHAEL KLAM Devour Me Homeopathically 218 JILL G. HALL In the Fast Lane 219 CHRIS VANNOY Hello 220 TOMÁS GAYTON Rosarito 221 LORI WALKINGTON Baby Shower 222 JIMMY JAZZ Elegy for Jim 223

ANTHONY BLACKSHER “Donald” 226 MALACHI BLACK De Clementia: Prayer of the Last Prizefighter 228 GERARDO NAVARRO Border Scar 229 MELISSA MENCKE CAMPBELL My Rebirth 231 J.K. WALLEN Hart Island Hymn from the Souls to the City 232 TERRY MACRAE Lucky 233 ROBERT THOMAS LUNDY Gaudeamus Ignorance 234 GLORIA KEELEY Parallel Ocean Rain 235 MARTE RILEY Blue Plate Special 236 MARJORIE PEZZOLI Bread Cats Butterflies 237 JOSEPH D. MILOSCH Within the Bay Park 238 JAY M. MOWER Grandma's Touch 240 JANELL STRUBE Heaven: Records Division 241 FRAN FINLEY Bearing My Name 242 EVELYN BURROUGHS (untitled) 244 CAROLYN MOGAVERO A Mother's Lament 245 AHLIA DEMAS To Captain Land Mine. . . 246 SUSIE PARKER On Aging 247 RACHEL M. GOBAR Subconscious Faults of the Inner Critic 248 MARY O’CONNOR West of the Summer Fires 249

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KRISTEN D. SCOTT Traveling the Pine Barrens 250 JOSÉ JORGE MARTINEZ The Barber 251 JON WESICK That Moment 252 GRANT QUACKENBUSH Double Abecedarian: Email to a Young Poet, re: Advice? 253 DON SCHOFIELD Bongos 254 CRYSTOPHVER R Beyond Recollection 256 ALAN ARCHER Forest in a Pharmacy 257 C. V. WILL Night. . . 258 LIZZIE WANN Quiet Place 259 HILARY WALLING In Palermo 260 SHARON L. THOMPSON The True Cost of Things 261 MEL TAKAHARA Plum Dance 262 JEAN E. TADDONIO A Cactus Garden Day 263 JANE MUSCHENETZ In Short 264 LISA ALBRIGHT RATNAVIRA My Daughter 265 PENNY PERRY Black Velvet Slacks 266 SUZANNE O’CONNELL Dogs Will Bite 268 LENNY LIANNE The Little Girl Inside Me is Crying in the Time of Coronavirus 270 MARIA KOTSAFTIS What Remains 272

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KATHY KEOGH Black Licorice and Ragweed 274 GAYLE O’KEY Then and Now 275 GWYN HENRY Pandemic Escape: Poem 3 276 LESLIE HENDRICKSON-BARAL Forfeiting Time 278 WILLIAM HARRY HARDING Sometimes, OB = a Jersey Shore Dive Bar 279 JOAN GERSTEIN Pandora Puts Zeus in His Place 280 ROGER FUNSTON Woods Wandering 281 DIANE FUNSTON After California Fires 282 KATHY LUNDY DERENGOWSKI God Bless the Unknown Poet 283 ANNETTE FRIEND Sarah’s Dressing Table 284 ALLISON SMITH Morning in the Mountains 285 NANCY FOLEY His Tobacco Cabinet 286 CASEY DERENGOWSKI It Happened So Quickly 288 LIZ SZYMANSKI Night on the Green River 289 TED BURKE The Lights Come Up 290 CLAUDIA ARAGON Conglomeration 292 KOLE SCHULTZ (untitled) 294 WILL SANDVIK Giving up 295 DANIEL SCHMIDT (untitled) 296 AIDEN Love, I'm Tired 298

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BARBARA MOSQUEDA (untitled) 299 BERNIE HERRON Fourth Creek Speak His Name 300 AINA HABIB I Miss the Rainforest and the Waterfall and the Moss 301 MARGE PIERCY Snake with its tail in its mouth 302 CHRISTINA BROWN dive 303 ANNIE ARNOLD Mother's Autumn 304 ADRIÁN ARANCIBIA love in the time of rona #5 305 JOAN C. FINGON small hands 307 KASSANDRA TEJEDA I want to eat your skin like a whole almond 308 R. MONK Boyhood Raft 310 CLAUDIA POQUOC The Bass Note 312 SABRINA ESTEFANIA CORNEJO Mother Nature, Mother Earth 313 KAELA MAE ALISASIS Rushed to the Hospital 314 DEBORAH P KOLODJI coronavirus 314

THE POETS 315 INTERNS AT SAN DIEGO STATE UNIVERSITY 332 REGIONAL EDITORS 333 EDITORIAL DIRECTOR 334 MANAGING EDITOR 334 EXECUTIVE EDITOR 334 PUBLISHER 334 FOUNDER 334 ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 335 SPECIAL THANKS 336 CREDITS 336

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SSAANN DDIIEEGGOO PPOOEETTRRYY AANNNNUUAALL 22002200--2211

Poems from the Region and Beyond

REGIONAL EDITORS ADRIÁN ARANCIBIA BRANDON CESMAT KARLA CORDERO JIM MORENO RON SALISBURY ROBT O´SULLIVAN JEFF WALT JON WESICK

MANAGING EDITOR SERETTA MARTIN

EDITORIAL DIRECTOR AMEERAH HOLLIDAY

EXECUTIVE EDITOR MICHAEL KLAM

PUBLISHER ANTHONY BLACKSHER

FOUNDER WILLIAM HARRY HARDING

POEMS 1

WILLIAM SCOTT GALASSO The Year We Never Saw Coming

2020, its sound has symmetry, but infamy’s mark will cling to its numeral, like a cross on a hill

and those who endure will not forget this scythe unseen born in a world, half-away

it is not the corona it’s a stalker stealing surrounding sun, or breath without mercy a nimbus rounding a killer floating on air saint’s heads or God’s, it’s moisture staining it is not the moon a worker’s hands, one pregnant with promise love’s poisonous kiss

what can be done with such viral fury which respects neither wisdom or age, and who will it cull today, tomorrow

this cleaver of parents from children whose hands on glass cannot touch

KATH ABELA WILSON Mary Blue blue orchid birthday I have them delivered to myself from mom all night moth her indigo tapping mother’s‖blue‖veins how they cooled that last night in my hand the blueness of her last breath winter fountain

Lily of the Nile how the wind shakes it

Serenity House I have her name inscribed in hieroglyphics

SUSAN D. WALTER How Touching

Stripped bare – skin in air Running fingers lightly Around the face Such an evocative place To touch.

Moving down the neck Sweetly, gently Not quite a tickle Exploring a bit – Touching.

Shoulders so lovely Broad with promise, such a Provocative place Between arms and face Oh, softly touch.

Drifting down the arms Inside the elbow’s bend A surprising thrill Continuing To touch.

Lightly brushing fingertips on hair They rise, little erections A shiver of delight Gooseflesh From touch.

Pass with trepidation the wrist With goal of glorious hand Maker of miracles From the power Of touch.

And, oh! There’s so much more To explore With languid fingertips How touching. . .

D’ELLEN

then takes back again the hollow echo of your love

BONA M. SANTOS

dandelions claim a wasteland morning sun

ELIZABETH YAHN WILLIAMS I Have Loved Mornings

I have loved mornings when dawn’s first rays feature finches along my fence, hummers among the heather, flaxen orioles hunting in and out of hedges.

I have loved such mornings in my hearth-room where I welcome a mockingbird at my chimney, wrens cheeping from my neighbor’s rooftop trough.

I have loved those special mornings when an adolescent dove appears, daring to sip from the fountain just behind the desk where I am writing. Without turning, I watch her my first secret of the day.

ANN TWEEDY Blueberries as a child i loved blueberries strong skin around juicy greenish flesh startle of green under blue my mother would tell me how my love was like her father’s i remember wanting them in pancakes how they purpled the batter worth the ruination of soft beige mostly i remember picking them down by the airport with my father the tall bushes we biked to on our own bikes or me in a seat on his after he left, i tried to go on my own i wanted to enjoy the things i used to but i was afraid among bushes that loomed no sounds but the buzzing of small planes ever since only raspberries

MAJA TROCHIMCZYK Da Capo al Fine dark green light green moss green sage green

The world is verdant with life spring foliage unfurls from wine-red buds, luxuriating in sunlight Mockingbirds' melodious argument resonates through the garden "This is my, my, my tree!" "Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!" Air fills with the intense scent of orange blossoms and the warm gold to mauve to vermilion glow of April roses dark green light green moss green sage green

The silvery hue of sweet alyssum reminds me of sea foam on aqua waves of the Pacific I can only admire on my laptop until the "stay at home" orders are lifted and beaches are as full of human life as vibrant as my rainbow-green garden in these wartimes of a strange plague. dark green light green moss green sage green

Da Capo Al Fine

WALT STEPAHIN Dream Jobs

I’m intrigued when someone tells me I appeared in their dream, especially when it’s someone that I’m not close to. What am I doing there? Yet, it’s wonderful somehow to exist, remote like that someone’s sense of me played out in their sleep reverie. It doesn’t really matter if I’m a main character or have a bit part. To know my persona is cavorting around with no effort or consequences, is somehow satisfying. This kind of thing could go on even after I die at least until everyone I know is gone. I wonder if it’s possible then, to get parts as an extra only a stranger in the background.

JAN BEATTY Dream Highway: Quarantine In all the cities of this year I have longed for the other city ―‖MURIEL RUKEYSER

Dear striations of night: show me the sky door to my cities of leaving some track to the hammer forward of my wrecked, ambitious highway-of-dreams head.

SARAH Z SLEEPER BTS World an ode to my favorite boy band

Lost in LA-LA Land, bubbles, fireworks, flying princes, over in five seconds or three hours or twenty-four hours, or five hours in the car and four hours jumping, running, screaming.

Lost in BTS World, so far down the rabbit hole, with Apanman to entertain us, if not protect us from the throng, sixty- or ninety-thousand strong, who cares, it was everyone.

Lost in flowers, flames, Dior, pink rhinestones, glassy skin, tight jeans, flowing robes, body rolls, hip thrusts, sweet-as-you- please sentiments, tears of joy on stage and off. BTS World is where I die.

Corrected from the SDPA 2019-20

SONYA SCHNEIDER The Sea

Last night I dreamed I was walking on water; My feet were as light as hot air balloons.

The water was not friendly; it surged Up and down, like an angry parent, unpredictable.

I circled, unable to stop and unwilling To descend, listening to the sound

From behind the closed door where they Battled, their words as sharp as arrows.

Is it true I was once just a newborn Inside my mother’s cocoon? I did not know

How to walk, or talk, or write. I only knew The way forward and the warm taste of milk.

Then my body became a cocoon for two more Bodies, swimming in my amniotic dreams,

Kicking their way out. I am a strong swimmer; I have been known to swim naked under a full moon.

My children shout for me to come ashore, Where I can lean on a golden rock and breathe

Into them, their cheeks as pink as fresh shells. Instead, I beckon, and they dive headfirst into

The sea, dancing hands under the surface Calming the current of my heart.

NANCY SANDWEISS The Arbiters of Rectitude You can't condemn the unseemly howl and not the lash. ~ CHARLES BLOW stride paths of unearned privilege, wear flag lapel pins. They reign secure in office suites, command respect from traffic cops. Locked gates guard privacy; gardeners, maids (last names unknown) are paid in cash. The arbiters lionize liberty, pursuit of happiness. When simmering rage erupts, engulfs a fictional civility, they blame barbaric thugs who dare demand a rightful place. They never ask what free speech means to those who have no voice.

SANDRA ANFANG Ode to a Deer Carcass at Rush Creek

That day we hiked along the slough calling out the names of birds Blue Heron, Kite, Canada Goose I never knew grace would save the best for last. We climbed steep hills watched openmouthed as flocks of sea birds tails in their bills helixed round the sun boomeranging back again. A King Snake scissored through the dust Alligator Lizards did pushups on rocks strutting their six packs. Already drunk on beauty I ran my fingers up a dead tree’s spine home to woodpecker generations BB-ed with holes like a shooting range. I never knew grace was saving the best for last. On our final leg splayed on a grassy altar you lay on your side bleeding like Jesus. I could read the stigmata like a pomegranate slice tattooed on your left shank. Twin priests dipped their lusty beaks into your open chalice stooping to drink your holy wine the black feathers of their vestments lifting in the light wind. I wanted to stop their feeding long enough to close your eyes. Already I missed your thick hooves clomping over asphalt 16

your lightning leap over the stunned fence. O lucky me! I got to bless your body in its ripest suit of flesh a life of forage shut and bound like an ancient tome where pressed between thick leather covers grace had already penned your obituary.

LORRAINE A. PADDEN

a faultless sun surrenders autumn equinox

SALLY SANDLER Requiem for a Season

I sit in a garden suspended in time until a hooded oriole bids farewell, his song in couplets settling like soft rain or night fog on the shivering spikes of moor grass, on the gingko’s yellowing leaves, on the silver branches of this receding day.

His requiem falls on my shoulders, the pages of my book, the folds in my cotton dress. Even as I lean over this poem tired and alone, it lingers. And now with a clove of moon and a train whistling in the distance it becomes my tears.

ANNA SANCHEZ Perdón (I am sorry)

Beautiful brown girl, your eyes were black or so I remember. Your hair, long and black as well, in perfect braids. To be honest, I wondered how they were made. Maybe your mother or grandmother lovingly tied them. They were a work of art.

You were so pleasant and kind. I am sorry I made you cry. I’ll never forget that day. It has lived with me since 5th grade. Like the rest, I called you India (Indian), just so I could fit in. I wanted to have friends to play with and not be laughed at for sharing the same language our ancestors blessed us with.

Foolish and unkind, I knew I was wrong. I want you to know, I cried. Although I said, sorry, it was not enough. To this day I still wonder if I mangled your heart.

If I could go back, I’d choose you as a friend instead. I’d play with you all day. We’d study together. I remember, you were as bright as the moons that come and go each month. You’re still in my mind, beautiful brown girl.

In class that day, I hurt both of us. One day I hope to find you and make it up. Would you be my friend? Some day, I hope you’ll read this. I wrote it just for you, beautiful brown girl with eyes shining through the long years

SUSAN ROGERS In the Midst of Wildfires, Imagine Gardens in memoriam for George Jisho Robertson and the Big Basin Redwoods State park

It is wildfire weather and I am counting fires in the midst of daunting heat, so hot it’s hard to sleep or breathe. I try not to think of eleven thousand lightning strikes, hundreds of raging fires charring California. Our protected lands and parks, nearly one million acres in one week darkening air with soot. Big Basin, our oldest state park lost, and two thousand years old redwoods burnt.

Yet after flames have gone fallen ash can nurture soil, seedlings can reappear, forests and gardens will return just like you returned in my dream last night bringing seeds for gardens. You told me once that where some count sheep in order to lull themselves to sleep, you found peace in dreaming green. Imagine gardens, you said. Forget-me-nots, delphiniums, London Plane trees all watered by your careful hand.

So tonight, as I struggle with your loss and the prospect of fallen giants, the Mother of the Forest alive, but other ancient redwoods gone, I invoke your love of growing things with a whispered incantation. Let there be a prayer for gardens. Let there be a prayer for rain. I imagine your hand reaching out holding a watering can. I’m imagining gardens. George. I’m imagining them.

LYNDA RIESE My Father’s Children

I saw the fire first through our kitchen window, flames licking the cheesecloth that shaded my father’s prize mums. As the firemen’s hose uncoiled across our backyard lawn, flowers burned like children trapped in their beds: the spider mums first, their fragile, lacy faces lighting the night, thin stems of their bodies shriveling, then the pom poms, gaudy heads turned gray with ash.

My father mourned all summer like his best loved child had died, raged with a heat that seared the walls of our small house. He paced his ruined garden shouting, Who threw the match? as he smoked his Camels, bending down to touch a blackened stalk. I watched my father’s hands turn soft while autumn’s Santa Anas blew. His fingers curled around a glass of scotch he lay on our living room sofa like one of his withered plants while the weeds outside grew tall.

CHRIS ERNEST NELSON Onerous Concord

The jackal and the baboon have their own work to do. The armadillo and the monkey will never meet. Why would the lizard agree with the eagle? Why would the waves make peace with the shore?

So long as the clouds give freely to the rain, and the rain does not count what the rivers owe, the ocean will lend its waters to the clouds.

And the rocks will rest in their places, and the trees will bend with the wind, and the best days will bring contentment, and the best nights will be quiet and calm.

And you and I will never agree on the meaning of love, nor on the direction of fate, nor on what makes sense, but we can still be friends.

KATHY O’FALLON Rite of Passage

On the road past the pond up the hill, above the pines on the right you can see a rooftop that looks like a pyramid.

If my dog were still in his body, I’d walk him there, lay him down in front of the house like the Great Sphinx he resembled and I could pretend immortality, and in last night’s dream, my mother fell from a great height at the edge of cliff, and I, with my daughter, who I gripped, narrowly missed the same fate. The thud of finality at ground that sudden sorrow, strange relief.

The inward curve of death invites a pilgrimage: the hill a mountain, the valley barefoot.

Decades of not-daughter inside me, I tie my cleats, a rope snug at the waist for the sins of distraction and folly, climb the steep for the thrill of rappelling and the breathless smells of winter, the humility of icicle to sun.

JOHNNIERENEE NIA NELSON 2020/Found Poetry on Facebook Until the color of your skin is the target, you will never understand. — ANGELA DAVIS

They kill our dads then make fun of us 4 not having 1.

They have made thousands of arrests when they only had to make four.

III

BREONNA, I’m so sorry, so sorry that your neighbor’s wall received justice before you did.

Cops don’t need more training. They know how not to shoot White people.

They can use that same training to not shoot Black people.

STEVE MCDONALD And When I Told You the Bushes and Trees in the front yard had been trimmed and the leaves and branches had been raked and tossed into the green trash bin and when I said it was time to spread the bark chips to discourage the growth of weeds and to add the beauty of dark brown to the various shades of green you looked at me with those eyes that have for forty-three years both appraised and beguiled and asked if I would like an apple and a yellow squash for lunch which I took to mean it was time to take a break but the bark chips were still in their bags and the bags were leaning against the waist-high brick wall and between them and the wall was two feet of darkness a spider web and dead leaves and decay and the strands of the web were messy and sticky and you said That’s a black widow and I said Yes as I reached for the gloves but before I put them on you touched my arm and leaned in even closer and whispered

In fifteen minutes the squash will be warm and covered with melted butter

MARGARET MCALLISTER Red Rock Concerto

Brother Rock and Sister Moon wait in eternal patience to hear again a human voice deep enough, true enough to sing in harmony the Music of the Ages.

Invited she climbs up to sit on Little Brother’s brow cheek kissed by sun hair swirled by wind heart tuned by birdsong to the Melody of the Ages.

Eyes closed, head bowed her voice comes up from aboriginal depths the rhythm and sway heartbeat and tempo thunder and echo hands gliding through air marking the trails of newly hatched butterflies.

All is Transformed.

Endless vibration radiating out to tell the Family of All Being that we will again sing in the Chorus of the Ages.

SARAH B MARSH-REBELO Demitasse and Music

They played like angels, two wild

English men at a Steinway Baby Grand. Hands wrapped over hands as they wound their way through one classical composition after another. Pachelbel’s Canon, their interpretation.

The waiter served a demitasse, the ocean was smooth, the company smoother, a lanky Latin with white hair and compelling blue eyes. I laid down with him three hours later. Wrapped in the arms of my lover of thirty-three years at peace with a world, that had done me wrong.

FRED LONGWORTH Calling You Out

Your head has fallen vassal to your heart. Where once your pen brought balance to the page, this overturn now marinates your art in blame and shame and finger-pointing rage.

I do not condescend when now I say: we all have been betrayed by fingers loved. The hand we once held close drew far away, and in its stead a fist emerged, ungloved.

Forgive, forget old homilies wax trite. Some‖hurts‖claw‖loose‖and‖dog‖the‖artist’s‖path. But you have let them dictate what you write, and then made me the target of your wrath.

I have no truck with calumny unearned. In‖days‖of‖yore,‖I’d‖have‖your‖snake’s-tongue burned.

SYLVIA LEVINSON Waihou Spring Forest I hear the calling of the invisible waters. from Shadows from the Moonlight — TAYLOR DEPRINCIPE, age 7

Each year I transplant myself to this island, but it is not beaches, palms and luaus I seek. I pilgrimage to the mystery of forest. Where rows of slender trunks like hallways, arch over me, filtered sun-glow through shadowed branches. Where once cattle grazed this land bare, and the precious spring flowing down Mt. Haleakala was piped away to water ranch livestock. Where a century ago, amid sparse native trees, wise and worried guardians of earth transplanted acres of foreigners. Blue Gum eucalyptus and Monterey pines, whose roots they hoped would take hold, whose windbreaks form a watershed to nourish the land, cycle of sustenance. Here, no cloying scents of plumeria or coconut, only loamy fragrance of fallen leaf and needle, of growth, decay and return. Here, no ukulele notes drifting on the breeze, only shush of trade winds and the creak of woods breathing, lullabying.

TONI LARSON The Bus Driver for Roger It is important that you do not get into a train, car or bus with him in your dreams unless you are ready to join him.” ~ MAE J.

Eyelids flutter like fallen leaves October holds such longing. The soothing night gives sanctuary from grief. I still dream about him. My hurting body falls into space, rising, rolling, shedding hurt. Lost luggage filled with memories floats away into the void. The bus rolls out of the mist. He is at the wheel, in command, watching me, touching me, beckoning me. The first step is the hardest. Into the mist I climb. No fear. No pain, no regret. The wheels turn, the world moves on. He reaches back for my hand. It is a fire touch and I recoil. Doors explode outward, sunlight floods in. Eyes open, a new day of aloneness begins.

JEN LAFFLER Mantis

A green stick on a stalk, he waits alien head swivels, hesitates; eyes‖set‖wide‖as‖a‖hammerhead‖shark’s fix, unseen, on fluttering marks; soundless snap of slender tongs the mantis feasts! Blends back; belongs.

MARCYN DEL CLEMENTS and IGNATIUS FAY The New Normal? adding COVID to‖my‖computer’s dictionary

don’t understand it but I can spell it now trying to adjust to an older me Zoom meetings

virus summer spell-check choking on new words blood pressure spiked doc prescribes Zoom Yoga

workout with a friend thank goodness I don’t have to wear a mask

SHARON LAABS Miramar National Cemetery

Death leads our caravan of cars past unending rows of soldiers who voluntarily gave their lives to serve our country.

Arriving at this quiet memorial we’re masked and spaced apart.

With precise detail the ritual of the flag unfurls, folds back again, held steady while taps is playing nearby.

In this tidy completion, the flag is presented to the widow while a messy grief hurls itself across this nation and ghosts of the fallen mingle with row after row of Covid-19 victims who involuntarily gave their lives in this invisible war.

BRIAN KIRVEN The Coast is Not Clear October 9th, 2017

Oh, to awake into a new Monday, as another inland wildfire creates a haze right outside my back door to match my morning daze, nothing to fear, we’ve‖been‖here‖before, the flames are far.

I get in the car, drive up out of the canyon, see neon crimson behind trees. Dark sky stretches dream state into waking day, to create a one-of-a-kind commute.

Do I hallucinate? Looking backward and up, it’s‖the‖Land‖of‖the‖Rising‖Sun,‖ ruby red ball through blurred film screen. Same red of brake lights and roadwork traffic signal up Highway One.

A crowd of humorless Mexicans at the oyster hangout, 7:30am? I remain stupefied, yet dazzled by the scenes of this Hitchcockian movie, played out in Tomales, Valley Ford, and Bodega Bay where a traffic jam reeks of urban rush hour. My enchanted mind reaches: Another solar eclipse so soon? A day without Latinos? Armageddon?

Bright red lights of fire engines bust by stopped cars as I approach work at the elementary school, the radio finally reveals the inland locus of the blazes. On this surreal, non-ordinary Monday morning, enclosed within my fanciful poetic reverie, little do I know, or will know for days that Dad and home had already gone up in flames.

DEBORAH P KOLODJI

ocean breeze a wave between you and me

CLIFTON KING Looking for Answers in the Night Sky

The night air is heavy, unbreathable, as if the door to Hell has been left ajar. The air conditioner labors in the window spewing‖cool‖air‖like‖a‖minister’s‖oration‖ on forgiveness and the kingdom of heaven. Unable to sleep I wander outside, think I might see the face of God in the night sky, ask Him about the heat, wildfires up north, dual hurricanes in the Gulf, the Derecho that leveled ten million acres of crops, this world-wide pandemic, thousands dead. I peer into a sparsely starred night, a sliver of new moon already low in the western sky, wonder if the good times are really over. Listen. Is that thunder I hear, or hoofbeats of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse?

JIM KACIAN An End to Solipsism in the beginning there was only me and a lot of light outside my focus and at the end when this me is spent i will take it all into the dark but in between the one and the other there now has come this you besides in times like these when you breathe in the night and deep i see what light is for

WENDY JONES No Mud, No Lotus

The‖lotus‖doesn’t ask permission to shoot its stem out of the mud. It is simply time.

Time to loosen its grip, to pass through the water and emerge from the surface. Time to yield to its purpose.

And so, it softens. Unfurls. Stretches until it reaches its full expression.

Even then, as a beaming chalice of light and communion, the lotus stays rooted in mud.

Because the mud, the darkness, is where its life began and the wellspring of its luminosity.

LOIS P. JONES Redwood for George Jisho Robertson (1934 - 2020) after reading JOANNA KLINK’s Nightfields.

It is night, and the fires break open. They rise slowly and this time they will reach your crown. What grows within is neither rage nor calm but the need of lightning to touch you. Here, the hollow of your trunk is curtained in flame like a portal to a future – your canopy of leaves still safe in the mist hundreds of feet above. I press my cheek to your bark and keep your silence, the prayer you were before the stars were dense with distance. Even now as the flames consume your‖history‖I‖can’t‖stop‖holding‖ what you were. If I can believe in the scent of dirt and the blood of these salmonberries,

I can believe the call of the thrush remains inside the light that slants into your needles. High in the clouds the wind sways you, branches spindle thin. Even as you burn, you are already ocean.

IBRAHIM IBN SALMA Tree speaks

I paint the sky with my branches, I fortify the soil with my roots, I fill the air with oxygen, for a million years I have given you the reason and the resources to exist, my branches never kill one another, my roots never tell my fruits: ‚I owe you‛. You have uprooted, burned and demolished me, and I have no desire to reciprocate, in lieu, I have continued to give you more oxygen and food and never retaliate, I wish you would treat one another like I have treated you for years. Stop over and give me a hug sometimes.

AMEERAH HOLLIDAY When They Turn My Name into a Hashtag let it be known that my Mama sings Its sweetness anointed by my Granny which is as close to divine as our households get It demands respect, a slow wind enunciate, define and redefine until you taste spice on tip of your tongue It dances, the broken-down bass line of your favorite song a rise, and a fall It thunders through halls and snakes Its way down crowded streets we shake trees the living visions of ancestral dreams existing as both blessing and curse a love song turned battle cry both spiritual and revolution on the day they take my name from me remind them this is not the first time and how we quilted ourselves back together resilient seams and begin again

CHARLES HARMON Can’t Connect Kyoka and Senryu Sequence can’t‖connect with the real world no wi-fi variety explains the friendly stranger is the spice of life opening her bedroom door and the Kama Sutra circling the boat sea‖monsters‖you‖can’t‖see ripples its sullen power extremely addictive you do one line then‖you’re‖hooked have to do more. . . poetry. . . born‖on‖New‖Year’s‖Day guess my parents were April Fools tachycardia hyperlipidemia presbyopia — doctor’s‖diagnosis or a Greek poem? wicked witch of the water park melting. . . still feel the burn

months after the marathon — I’m‖too‖old‖for‖this limping across the finish line dreaming of the next race. . . alone against the world biker

JOAN C. FINGON

brazen bolt of light against a coal black sky heaven exposed

KATHY HARMON-LUBER Saguaro

The sky whispers insistently, as insistent as the rush of the wind through this stand of Saguaros. Storm’s‖comin’. . .

Occotillo, creosote, mesquite twist, bend, strain beneath‖the‖wind’s‖hand, wildly dancing to music unheard.

The Saguaro has it – I wish it mine: Oh, that I could stand as strong as Saguaro with back steady against the coming storm.

The desert tapestry of patterns – repeating like lessons ignored begging for attention – unravel in the wind.

Fear takes hold of me. And they know, the flock of birds I keep in the cage of my ribs Trapped, skittish elf owls all

Wings flailing about for freedom I whisper their name through parted lips they take flight, the dark sky broken by gossamer dreams on thunderous wings.

MARY HARKER Turned Back

Shoulder to shoulder, thousands fill the road, flee the death and starvation war brings. No truck carries their belongings. No one gives them water as they trudge on, and on.

At‖the‖border‖they’re‖turned‖back.‖A‖man howls as he shrinks away from barbed wire coiled to keep him out. The child he clasps to his chest screams. One woman, burdened like a beast with blankets, carries her son her face a mask of pain and despair.

What can I do, here in America, to help?

Last night after choir rehearsal, I walked across the street and down dark stairs to my car. A man was sitting on a step huddled as if settling in for the night. As he moved over for me to pass, he said, ‚Have‖an‖enjoyable‖night.‛‖I‖replied,‖‚The same‖to‖you,‛‖before‖I‖gave‖it‖a‖thought.

DIANA GRIGGS The War Wasn't Difficult for Me

I twirled the house in dresses made from curtains as darkness draped the windows and tapered candles melted wax down old chianti bottles. I laughed at myself wearing a Micky Mouse gas mask and cots in the basement held songs and stories for nights of sirens that brought rubble to climb and treasures to find. What did I know of death that lay buried beneath the city?

Only the smell of fear as I slept in Mother's arms.

TERRI GLASS Unexpected Visitor

Last spring, it caught my eye through thick shrubs of the backyard, orange with a black throat. Oriole, orange as fire! Oriole, outrageous bird in my neighborhood amid juncos and finches. Unexpected as the young suitor who arrived at the top of my stairs one day my apartment perched on a steep hill covered in a forest of Bay trees. I felt like Rapunzel in a tower, my hair already let down when he came into view, dark haired, handsome as a storybook prince. His presence cast me into a glowing bubble of excitement, the sheer delight of a visit from the man who had purchased my old Honda the week before. We exchanged a few words then poof – he was gone just like the Oriole who appeared out of nowhere oh, so briefly churning my heart with its bright color.

DIANE GAGE Peaking

My dad could converse with water ouzels and pikas and marmots, or so it seemed when he made sounds those quick creatures made and they paused, alert, looking all around just as my two brothers and I paused, alert, absorbing these Dad-world wonders, the magic that dwells at elevation among sharp rocks and tough, tiny flowers.

Air, water, sky seemed all the same substance all variations in the key of light and each of us had our place in the choir each a part of clarity’s symphony.

And then we climbed back down from the heights to the dusty scrum of valley clamors.

DANIEL H.R. FISHMAN DJ at Work for VanMook

His fingers tweak knobs and switches, lift needles, caress vinyl, spin discs with smooth sure slides, mixing instruments with practiced ease.

Feedback loop to processor combines and broadcasts, oscillates delight.

Beat throbs, groove builds finds itself; rhythm vibrates out beyond internet radio land through speakers to where soundsters sample, dancers dance, sufferers sweat off trouble, work it all out to the beat.

TRISH DUGGER Short Story of a Long Life

I longed to be in Ladies Lingerie or Better Dresses but got stuck in Notions‖at‖Gilmore’s‖Dept.‖Store‖ at the corner of Oak Park Ave. and Lake St. stacking spools of thread, and you cannot imagine the many shades of pale blue. My days were spent in packets of Rick Rack, a prisoner in pins, zippers and snaps. I wondered if this was really a step up from slinging hash at the diner across the street where tips were good from guys living at the nearby Y. It had seemed so at that time in the‖summer‖of‖’49. . . so long ago. Does anyone even sew any more? Or know what a sewing notion is?

I finally quit and married a guy with a killer smile in Home Appliances. We’d‖met‖on‖a‖lunch‖break‖and‖soon shared smoothies. You know what I mean. Dan was a honey, handy with a vac in our tiny upstairs flat.

The‖story‖doesn’t‖end‖on‖this‖page. It takes a turn as good stories do, but‖I’ve‖a‖notion‖to‖take‖a‖nap‖and‖ anymore‖I‖don’t‖fret‖if‖it‖doesn’t‖get‖ written‖down‖right‖away,‖Tomorrow’s‖ soon enough to begin on the end.

CATHERINE DARBY Woven Relations

Settle on fine thread and clarity of discussion the beauty of voice, intent to resolve impossible knots, that impetuous aggression and annex hysteria, nasty of tangles.

Silk slips well as it spins in my fingers, the spindle swings freely, no fiend in my strand. Then weave a warp, the weft of connection, the beauty of voice, equal all threads.

Harmonious day, this honor of truth no larynx labyrinth needed, all threads equally balanced, a plain weave, a tabby of political splendor. Once strong voice with peaceful intention.

KELLY BOWEN Cancer

I had cancer We‖say,‖‚had,‛‖like‖it‖was‖a‖thing‖acquired Like a dinner party hosted A shirt, dress, car once owned

I had cancer Where’s‖the‖return‖receipt? I‖didn’t‖buy‖this‖dish. This one size fits all, fits far too many

I had cancer And my world was upended Those‖who‖know,‖you‖can’t‖exchange‖it No return to how it was before

I had cancer Never more the simple of life seems such Each moment, each breath, each word, laugh and glance I had these too

I had cancer I had the mask of immortality Cancer ripped it away and took up roost Unwanted houseguest

I had cancer And so I cleaned house Took stock in who and what, dusted and purged Remade myself

Like a new outfit can change your look A gathering can affect you long past its moments The costs and pleasures of the things acquired ripple over time I re-donned the mantle of life

I took out the cancer And with it, the deep rotting parts of me Those I gave back, no refund requested! No place for them here anymore 52

STELLA BOLOG If Only

If only I could have spared you. The journey was long and you braved it heroically. I had to think for both of us, to keep you safe. I steadied your walk, prepared your medications, bathed you, dressed you, helped you eat. Oh, the indignity of it all. Once so independent, now leaning on me, taking my energy to sustain you. If only I could have saved you from all of that.

CLAIRE BLOTTER Out of Darkness

Once you were a speck in the folds and canyons of your mother’s body, a sperm in your father’s tumultuous sea You had no tongue to speak nor fingers to shred the rough skin of an orange You were pure potential then tight fist of a white bud set to break into snow when out of nowhere out of matter and liquid you reached up grabbed the silver ring of a body shot into alien worlds and held on even when whirled like a bead in a rattle when your new ears burned and every cell expelled from the cave of a womb You hit air dove straight into the bowels of life where the chosen ones scooped you up carried you, open and breaking out of darkness out of nothingness into the upturned glaring chalice of light

DIONNE BLAHA Was That You?

Was that you who crawled out of the cave you’d found for sleeping? When you swam your toes in the grass, clouds splashed across the blue of the sky. When you washed your eyes in the rain, oceans cleared and we could see whales and snakes swimming on the bottom. You danced with your children under the arms of trees still here, and nothing—not hives nor bees— could smudge the stars in your eyes. When you and your friends sit still, you hear birds in your ribs who are free to fly but stay to sing. Every time someone plants an olive, it’s not for themselves but for the one within and without. Let your heart fall like a crisped leaf into lily pad petals that purify the eyes of the gazer.

BOBBIE JEAN BISHOP Not Far from Home

I turn at the sound of rustling, meet the blind gaze of a palm, its fronds, dry, brown and fractious with breeze. It stands like a sentry on this cracked-asphalt lane, once army training grounds, now a rough field full of forgotten presence. My memories stir, a sweet drift of faces, reminders of loved ones, and loss.

I’m kin to abandoned places away from the crowd, trees swaying, waving like riparian flags from the bank of a sluggish river. The weeds cropping up from crumbled pavement make me sad, their hardiness signals a tenacious hold on life, yet we die in so little time.

One lone oak leans like an old soldier, twisted and bent, gnarled feet buried in twigs; he stands near his regiment, a thick bed of thistles. A murmur of voices lace this moment to the past. Please listen they say as I walk farther than I thought to go, just downhill from home. 56

CHARLIE BERIGAN Fireflies

They glow there so freely, oh, you can see them, in Tomkins Square right then at dusk, as shadows start falling Take a seat and watch the show A he, a she, two shes, two hes all‖ensembles‖joined,‖in‖paramours’‖dance Clasping, grasping, singing free they find their ways, these glowing gobs affections pressed, affinities felt Now that they soar with all hopes unbarred the wider world: swift irrelevancy In‖Tomkins‖Square,‖at‖long‖days’‖dusk they fly, they meet, they swoop so fleet and as night falls, those strings and chords of encounters brief, they are no more For all are now lit by‖streetlights’‖sun heralding‖Loves’‖great‖victory the only triumph chord that counts.

PAT ANDRUS After Eating the Novel The Man Who Fell in Love With the Moon by Tom Spanbauer

In the cut of the wind I crawled to you Studded turquoise and green rain kept me loose, exuberant, unlike some white moral code.

A wheel held us together then rolled away as we orbed into one delicious song traveling down frozen valleys cushioning stilted bodies those losing memory of their first bicycle ride that freedom of I AM.

And as this story closes if you are fearful tides threaten to drown it or all is just empty nonsense.

Then move aside so room is left for the wonder ones still seeking that heart that riotous dance, breaking air with breath with golden keychains, and butterfly paintings,

and a verb that makes babies, silver moons, and horses whinny at the drunken stars.

GREGORY LONGENECKER

home at last the salvaged statue of Odysseus

CAROL IRELAND ARCHIBALD Indelibles

I scrounge through piles of old poems in a limp cardboard box in the cellar, the paper jaundiced, crinkled as antique wallpaper, words missing where moths have munched holes.

A few silverfish slither out, half-dazed as if drunk.

Political satires crumble in my hands like campaign promises.

Discourses on religion are faded beyond salvation.

Profound observations of life have do-not-resuscitate orders.

Dozens have died awaiting revision, like heart patients on a donor list.

But the love poems, whether enduring or unrequited – shimmer like the amber glow of a sepia sky lingering after sunset.

JANICE ALPER The Singer Sewing Machine for Grandmother

Wisps of white hair thinner than bobbin’s thread escape from the bun of her petite head bent over the Singer Sewing machine.

All threads in position hand on the wheel toes on the treadle Grandma places fabric under the needle’s eye.

Guided by her calloused fingers the machine whirrs and whirrs straight seams for doll dresses the hems of new skirts and patches on Zayda’s threadbare jackets.

Did she piece together threads of her life, her solo teenaged journey from the meager shtetl in Poland to bustling streets of New York?

Was it her life or her family’s that she sought to repair stitch by loving stitch?

Zayda: grandfather, in Yiddish

SUSAN BLACK ALLEN Like Roses

I embrace you. All of you.

Your soft and tender places. The ones you bury, deep and dark.

Your glassy shards and cactus thorns. I gather them into my arms like roses.

And we bleed together Until the bleeding stops.

RICHARD L. MATTA Smokey Mirrors

Such a mystery the brain wanting ‚to see a‛ then creating the ‚a‛

Think of a dog look at the clouds you can almost hear the bark

Hunted deer once spotted rock and tree deer, a two-legged one, orange vest

Look for a whale fin you’ll find one hiding in the slate grey waves

Distant white splash on a lonely sea looks like a fishing boat

The garbage can in the dark alley seems to be a scary person

Now recognition technology made ‚to see a‛ for a safer society they say

MICHAEL HILL Watching Surfers at Ocean Beach

Out among the breakers, they bob like dark buoys, marking time as they await the next big surge, the one they hope will bear them aloft, carrying them finally forward into their becomings. Clad in the dusky skins of sea creatures, they have gathered here seeking immersion in the language of the sea – its tides and its currents, its great primordial song – and to hear their watery origin stories in the roaring of waves, each one advancing them that much further toward shore, toward evolving all over again.

MINERVA Jazz Bass King

Nubian Jazz Bass King Charles Mingus regal Charlie Played a Freudian tune for me In a Philadelphia church-club Soon after Mommy and Daddy died.

I was writing, journalism style Drinking Chivas and ginger sweet. Mingus said it was not a real drink. I never had no date ‘cept King Charles and the fun.

The music, the message, the language. 1970’s corner-club home school In my front row, stage right pew. At the church of What’s Happening Now Mingus would bow his bass and pluck it.

Told me it’s okay to be creative and in pain. Thinking back to that jazz club in Philly Can’t remember its name but It was right after I lost my parents While a student living in Rome.

Mommy died exactly three months after Daddy. I crossed the water four times. I was happy lonely. The music was cozy. Russ and fish dinners with Betty "Be-Bop" Carter.

Good-bye pork pie hats of love. So glad I was there! So happy I made your acquaintance. I knew it was happening all those years. At the history of this music called Jazz!

BRANDON CESMAT Second-Hand Body Armor

The legal M16 with extended magazine jammed and the owner blamed cultural memory; then he broke it down, re-assembled it with a laser site, aimed at Memory and emptied the clip.

Somehow, Memory survived again.

Dunn, loyal vet of Kearny's invasion, swore he saw Memory escape on the steam of a breath just before an acquired target became a casualty.

Acquisition accomplished, but when you remember 911 is it 2001 or 1973? Which side of Cheney-cide are you on?

Remember the Alamo. Remember the Pueblo. Remember the Stars ‘n’ Bars. Forget invasion declared as independence, The Proclamation Line crossed. Forget Conestogas crucified. Forget the slaves of Jamestown. Forget the tune of "Ludlow Massacre" and half Woody's lyrics to "This Land Is Your Land."

"Why do they hate us?" asks Dunn's grandson. "Who's 'they'?" Kearny echoes.

The surviving bystanders," Dunn said, key to the Charleston flag pole smoking in his pocket.

JOAN C. FINGON grandpa skin aged and spiky old porcupine

CHRISTIAN SANCHEZ How Are You Doing?

The question ricochets in my brain with no answer, what should I say, ‚I’m good‛—am I an actor? You see, I have to make this up, if I give the real answer I just might blow up.

There is nothing good about the world that I live in. Constant battles in my mind that I just can’t win. Depression is real and imposter syndrome reigns supreme, body language shows all is well—like I’m living the American Dream.

Not a worry, sans misery. Dying on the inside, it’s too much for me. Unaware of the blessings brought into play, It's only 11am, already dreading the next day.

Here they come, don’t look nervous, Walk away? What a burden.

‚Hey how are you?‛

Well,. . .

I I’m I’m go. . . I’m good.

ANNA ZAPPOLI Little pumpkin from Tim's garden

It is raining more amor sweet marmalade made by you arrived from Oregon with hearts in envelope they fell on the floor red your good wishes on my birthday I am thankful for all the gifts you give me Sunflowers and pumpkin seeds from your garden sweet love and devotion thank you son my happiness.

DAN ADAMS “Who the Hell is Frida Kahlo?”

A woman with white hair and powered face –

Stands in the middle of the Museum’s gift shop –

Surrounded by images of a woman with bird-like eyebrows – self-portraits with monkeys, dogs, & pain.

The woman with white hair and powderedface repeats:

‚Who the Hell is Frida Kahlo?‛

Out of nowhere a man appears – Resembling a Buddha, wearing a Stetson hat, gun belt, and baggy overalls covered in paint.

‚She was a great painter and my wife – The only letter Picasso wrote me said: ‚Neither I nor you are able to paint a head like those of Frida Kahlo.‛

Now, the question is Madam –

‚Who the Hell are you?‛

JUDY REEVES Watching His Body

Watching his body hands that, minutes ago, fluttered like pale birds above his chest now lay stilled.

The watery pulse in his throat just a moment before faintly pulsed has quit.

I take my place near his shoulder lean into his weak breaths shadow of lash against gaunt cheek close enough to touch.

I want to whisper, Wake Up open your eyes, look at me one more time I can’t remember how I looked to you was I distracted by the humming of machines measure of plastic tubing snaking into your arm from the clear bag above your head Was I looking at you, eyes stained with fear biting my lips like I do when I am afraid I wanted to be smiling the last time you saw me I wanted to say, I’ll be fine

JEENI CRISCENZO The Little Girl in the Lime-Green Jumper

A little girl, in a bright, lime-green jumper stole the show tonight. Her mama was playing the jarana and singing in a son jarocho performance. Her papa, squatting on the floor in the front row, was only a half-hearted obstacle to her transformation from audience to performer. The irresistible rhythm of the musicians yanked her from his clutch, and, finding herself free, she scurried to the stage, first to her mama’s red-ruffled skirt, where she safely assessed her audience, her tiny feet testing the beat, as I am certain she had done often while her mama practiced. A little boy, even younger than lime-green girl, seeing her basking in the attention of a roomful of strangers, tiptoed cautiously to upstage her. That magnetic pull between children, drew lime-green girl to center stage. Face to face, they stare, smile, wonder. Little boy sees he is no match for this precocious creature, and scurries, in his little boy gait, to his abuelita’s arms. Lime-green girl’s papa beckons. She flirts, slowly spins, but doesn’t comply. There is a pause, long enough for me to look about, and notice the audience seated in a crescent of folding chairs, standing along the wall on the sides.

Parents, one with a newborn wrapped in a brightly woven bufanda, close to her mother’s heart; Youngsters, free to wander from the laps and hugs of one family member to another; Teenagers, wearing t-shirts declaring their pride of ancestry and position on political issues; Grandparents, dressed in traditional garb. Not a one flaunting monetary wealth, yet peacock-proud of their precious loved-ones around them, all sharing the music, and smiling at the little girl in the lime-green jumper. One song ends, another begins, the beat quickens, lime-green girl’s mama steps up to the wooden stompbox and deftly plays the beat with her heeled dancing boots. Her jarana, slung over her shoulder on a strap, dances the rhythm on her shoulder blades. Lime-green girl steps up to the stompbox to join her. Hesitantly at first, she moves her feet and then we watch with astonishment as the music OWNS her! She moves almost as expertly as her mama, Bump, bump, bump bah bump! Thump, thump, bump bah thump! All eyes are on those little stomping feet, perfectly in time to a beat passed to her in the blood of her ancestors. Her expression, one of satisfaction, one of knowing who she is. She is what music is. She is what being human is.

continued

All smiles, the audience of generations past, present and future fling their hearts wide open. All worries and thoughts of real-world haunts, are suppressed for the time. While, yes, we may have stolen her future, for a few brief moments she stole our present, and planted within us a bit of innocent wonder, a bit of pure joy, a bit of irrational hope, a bit of the exuberant drumming that we will continue feeling with every beat of our hearts.

LORRAINE A. PADDEN

naked like the garden peeling the sticker off an apple

MARIT ANDERSON Still Standing It’s time to take sides Not just to do as you please Make no mistake I stand with the trees — ROBERT NANNINGA

As a kid I heard that Mexicans swim across a river to the US and show up wet which never made sense Why didn’t grown-ups just build them a bridge?

Dad had mean names for everybody who wasn’t like him They became the others More akin to pests & bothersome beings than actual kin

The others were different in some sneaky foreign way and not to be trusted unless they were cleaning other peoples houses or picking crops or praying I hear they’re very religious During cocktail hour stories about the others attempting to enter our promised land became more sinister and colorful

Now at 70 I’m still a California hippie wilting comfortably Still confused about bridges & borders Still hugging trees in awe of their natural ability to heal and love When a crow flies south into Mexico then circles back to Encinitas for the evening to snuggle in familiar branches Tree doesn’t call Bird wetback or spic or beaner or illegal alien Trees are never absurd

ROBERT HALLECK The Lily Pulitzer Dress

He’s making dinner this evening as the last of the casseroles from the funeral are gone. Simple fare: Marie Callendar’s pot pie and a store bought salad washed down by a non vintage white blend with a screw top. He turns to ask her the oven temperature realizes she is not there. He is alone now. Alone, often tired and feeling a bit not there. As he puts down the placemat he can’t remember where the fork goes a simple thing she always did right, that and how to keep the edge of the pot pie from burning. He skips grace later still angry at a God that has inflicted such pain in his heart too soon too sudden. The house is still at the end of a long day that started with an effort to clean out her closet. He got as far as her favorite the long pink flowered Lily Pulitzer dress. He sat on the edge of the bed and recalled the Jersey shore summers with lobster dinners at The Crab Pot, cold Bombay Gin and ice with a twist. He sat for an hour in tears and laughter before he put the dress back on the hanger, closed the door and left the bedroom.

It will happen. Tomorrow, the next day, some day with less pain that tonight seems far away.

CHRIS WHITNEY A Line Is —

Eight A.M. patients waiting six feet apart outside the clinic Eighteen-year-old Marine recruits, molded into the same, but with different color eyes Footprints down the beach, overlapped where one person tried another’s for size Strings in three prayers flags separated in a triangle in the garden A succession of sunrises Fifty-two poems The fence along the trail that can’t hold back the sky’s clouds The first eight all-black high school rowers on a stretch of a Chicago river on the cover of a book Two-hundred and ninety-five haikus on Instagram. Here’s one from yesterday:

The first paid for the Second, who paid for me and I paid for the next

LEWIS KRUGLICK Correspondence from Here

Smoke & early summer a burning navy ship and climate change there's a correspondence somewhere there but it's too hot to core it out. Stuck in a nursing home my head melting, listening all night my pillow full of sweat to the woman next door hack out her lungs amazed at the insistence of life. My beard grows long and white as I nudge toward eighty. The traumatic brain injury gangster sits with limbs contracted making crude suggestions to every woman passing in the hall on my way to tend my tomato plants.

I wasn't supposed to last this long and expected a more pleasant suffering. The jalapeños are growing both green and yellow as a carpet of spearmint winds through the kale. The gangster and I share the watering then we're ejected from the garden again.

I track time by the meals on my table my clock and glasses are watching me motion through space to the dreams of my sleep and a boredom so potent it peels the skin off my mouth leaving a bitter taste.

GREGORY LONGENECKER

the wariness in‖his‖son’s‖eyes third marriage

LLOYD HILL Sonneteer

You can write a poem, dash off a sonnet Like Shakespeare or Sir Walter Raleigh. Go to your computer, gird yourself, get on it, Suck in your breath and take it all the way. Use all your weapons, be the armed warrior Slash words with finger, fist, heart, and pen. Be nonchalant with ease, don’t be a worrier, Your confidence shows like renaissance men. Stay near proper form though iambics may vary, Your pentameter may also have some bend, Start now, give it time so later you may tarry. Show it to fellow poet/friends, take from them, Think it’s the world’s best when you send it in, Then plead with the gods that you will win

RON LAUDERBACH Telephone Directory

I never met Otis Fudpucker but I looked up his name first, every time I received a new phone book and was happy to find him listed on Otay Rd. I mispronounced his name a couple times and chuckled as I considered his childhood challenges, then placed the tome on a kitchen chair so my child could eat her Cheerios.

PAM IMPSON Last Dance?

When the band has packed up and the lights start to fade When last call is over and checks have been paid When I find myself standing alone on the floor Should I cut my losses and head for the door?

When the light on the jukebox has finally died And the old welcome mat has been brought back inside Should I linger a while in the cold silent bar Or dig out my keys and walk back to my car?

When the empty glasses are stacked on a cart But a meter keeps beating inside my heart Should I call it a night and go home to my bed Or dance a bit more to the tune in my head?

JENNIFER MCBROOM Bittersweet Nothings

You only notice the erosion after it’s done.

One hand towel taken out of my closet last month.

A pair of boxers a couple weeks later.

Your body wash just days ago.

I take the half drank bottle of water from your side of the bed & stuff it in the recycling bin.

You kept the spare house key & I won’t change the locks.

CRAIG COTTER Alex and Me at the Beach as Teenagers

Tapped him on the shoulder and handed him my chewed grape gum he didn’t smile, looked in my eyes, took gum out of his mouth and we swapped.

His was cinnamon. It was the only way we could kiss.

— Summer, 1976

JAMES CROAL JACKSON I Always Avoided Landscaping

Bug guts in red shed, backyard. Dad had clippers with my name engraved. I didn’t trim trees after death. Hired hands, tired hands, ceramic sculptured lawn. I had to leave. Mom said she’d handle everything.

DAVE GILDER The Pigeons of St. Mark’s Square

You can enjoy your espresso without fear while waiting to visit the basilica. The pigeons of the Piazza San Marco won’t steal your biscotti. They don’t eat seeds or locusts anymore. They are made of steel now. That’s why they make a clicking sound when they strut on the pavers. They consider the metallic whoosh of flying formation around the square a sign of genius. They are not given to baptizing in this wilderness. If you ask them, they will tell you they are not doves. They wouldn’t consider a transformation of the heart. You can look for them coming down from the clouds, but you won’t see them. They don’t engage in that kind of descent.

CURRAN JEFFERY Blinded by Youth

Old Age has caught up with me I’m fascinated. Youthful obsessions no longer drive me crazy. They seem like something I read in a novel images in a movie I don’t need to watch anymore.

Old poems come back with new insight. I wonder how I missed that before. Must have been blinded by youth.

I laugh. I welcome the new quietness I embrace the silence of time the sound of the Universe turning

RON SALISBURY 104th Day of the Shelter in Place with a line from Raymond Chandler’s Red Wind

Don’t worry about punctuality, Reggie instructed as he shuffled the cards, the overhead light fuzzed and crackled no one to come out and fix it. Or the AC. The hot Santa Ana wind from the desert pass moved in and settled down on the five of us in our face masks like a fat hand on the last muffin. Reggie dealt, two down, one up to everyone. What did you mean about punctuality, Eunice asked. Every neck back sweat, every sticky shirt. The heat sharpened every carving knife in the place. Any answer would do. On nights like this anything was possible.

The afternoon drains down into evening, the dogs have gone in and you should but this is one of the last days you might have. No one really knows how many one has left but considering, how are you to know. The chimes ring in the breeze that shifted from inland to out to off shore to inland. I’m going to stay outside and eat cookies and sip vodka and consider my life which I have considerable questions about. The lattice 88 screen squares what little sun is left on her bare legs as she talks softly on her phone at the pedestal buttermilk colored table. I’m too old. Too wrinkled. Too poor. A decade can turn a man from one thing to another. She’s looking for another pasture for her horses. Do I blame her? Hard to tell. Am I tired trying to be what I was a decade ago? Or will I accept the soft glove of limitation and settle for alone in a cramped one bedroom. It’s geometric desire I feel, the little squares of light on her thighs, nothing to do with geometry.

III

He woke short of need at four AM and knew that he would probably sputter out beside the metaphorical road the next afternoon about five. I need a topping off, Reggie thought. God’s filling station attendant, Hank, puts the nozzle in his ear and pumps an hour more. It had been a dream about Sharon Horter almost sixty years ago and how love blows through a person like a humid wind in Cumberland Valley before a storm. The summer storms would roll around that valley rim, a ball in a salad spinner.

continued

For Once on the Face of the Earth is a strange thing for the monk with a chicken on his shoulder and a pipe full of medicinal herbs to say to Reggie. This wasn’t in Nepal or on the crest of the west facing Rockies, but on Grand Avenue, one block from the Pacific, an Ashram and free breakfast after lesson. It had been a long trek by yak from University City with nothing to eat but biscuits and fermented milk, the testy guide suffering from hemorrhoids muttering passages from the Upanishads.

It isn’t the yappy-dog morning, little furry rat stuck on the balcony across the courtyard with its pee pad. No, it’s the old-dog morning, on his bed snorkeling the new air and Reggie is crawling up the long ladder of wake, the cooler drift from the window he left open paint-brushing his face. The ghostly attendants of dawn hook up the needles and tubes and drain the night blood, replace it with the day blood. This will last as long as he can make it before the crap of each day crowds the door. Somedays he can hold his breath until coffee sometimes not.

JONATHAN YUNGKANS Like a Night Sound for Which There Is No Explanation after John Ashbery

I keep defining silence by what insists is missing. No college kids lighting up in front of my place. No iPhone blaring a soundtrack, but a hush that in itself is a sound, has a heartbeat, inhales cool air for an evening into which those kids might have preferred to blend, seamless with the dark, by how they draped a brick retaining wall where only lantana remains, purple blossoms small as distant stars hanging overhead. The kids laughed. Their conversations hovered, hot-air balloons, until the heat inside them faded, gravity kicked in, dusk settled as it does tonight soundless as freezer frost clinging to Ziploc bags of ground chuck put away months ago rock-hard with isolation and its creeping chill. The moon’s an orange twist, laid against a high-rise that passes as a highball glass. Sky clinks against glass, settling as it waters down my composure. Agostino bites my tongue. Condensation trickles down an unbreathed sigh.

DEBBIE HALL After the Circus after Ron Salisbury

At 65, Stellasue had given up finding the man of her dreams. Most men were put off by the way she moved — her double- jointed limbs going off every which way, like they had minds of their own. It got her a good job with the circus, though. She’d been especially proud of her high-wire act, where she’d twist her body to look like a pretzel and balance on one arm. So what if she’d never married? That’s just the yin and yang of life, Yoga Gypsy Sally told her one day, after reading Stellasue’s life line. But what now? She’d be damned if she’d spend her retirement pissing away her money in a casino, like some of her friends. Bingo at the senior center? Just shoot me now. Brainstorm! Politics! Why not? She’d just be trading one kind of circus for another. She knew the territory. Her cousin Reggie always called her a loudmouth, so she could sure get people to listen. She’d call Reggie right now, get him out of his crappy little apartment, make him her campaign manager. They’d take D.C. by storm, chase out all those other old goats in the White House and friggin’ make America great again, again.

KATIE MANNING You Smell Like Crayons

Like my child self’s insistence that anyone who joined me must return my crayons to the box in rainbow order. Like my confusion when my cousin in rural Missouri asked if I had any ‚crowns‛ and I assumed she wanted to make believe we were queens. Like my mom, whose perfect circles left clean borders, as if she’d been brushing teeth instead of coloring paper. Like my favorite red, half the size of the others, that I always used to brighten the night-before link on our Christmas chain. And now the scent mingles with milk and dirt while I sit with you to color Buzz Lightyear blue, and you watch, transfixed by movement and color. Someday when you are old and I am gone, will you sit and color with a grandchild? Will you still avoid the yellow crayon because it’s too light to see well, even though yellow is your favorite? Will this scent bring you back to this moment and to me?

AMANDA MATTIMOE In This Time, In This World questions arise again and again what can be saved what must be saved

I ask myself I ask you I ask the homeless woman draped in rags on the corner what deserves to be saved what must be slaughtered for its virtue how do we value the unique the distinctive curve of a broken limb

I question why a quality of sparkle determines how we measure a gem against all other things why do we rank gold or silver by its weight pearls by their luster forests by productive potential the conquerability of a mountain what about a sea slug’s worth or dwindling wild goats scrambling up impossible slopes what have we learned us the bipedal hordes to suggest we are capable judges

TIM CALAWAY Late Night Snacks (Then & Now)

My dad ate late-night snacks, not every night of course, sometimes he got the urge to eat strange and wondrous things; sardines and saltine crackers were a staple.

That odd little key used to peel back the can lid was a sight for us kids; the fish inside not so much, all slimy slivers slid onto the crackers and munched with great delight while we looked on aghast that dad ate those fishies.

But if that was bad, it did not hold a candle or a nose to Bleu Cheese, or limburger, stinky cheese to us, that vile odorous late-night snack.

It was not a gene passed on apparently or it might be recessive.

So not for me, sardines, not for me stinky cheese, yes for me other snacks.

BIL FUHRER Ode to the Onion

Oh onion of such foul smell, you bring me to tears as I discard your brown sheath and slice you into ringlets. Yet when I torment you in a hot pan, you glisten and make me salivate. Such shape shifting I envy.

Tears, transformation, salivation. You are a subterranean bulb more complex than many of my friends. You unearth important questions: Would I too transform in a hot pan? Would I glisten and release inviting aromas or blister and burn?

Oh onion of such foul smell, you have duped many writers into overusing your simile. It’s‖like‖peeling‖an‖onion,‖they‖say. Critics nod and agree good writing, superlative insight. I cry, trite phrase, shame on you.

What am I missing? I begin to search for clarification. through tears of anticipation I peel. But when I reach the center, I find nothing, No seed, no bud, no insight No harmonica.

AL ZOLYNAS The Unthinkable

How‖could‖it‖be?‖After‖all,‖he’d‖been‖a‖fabled‖ lover,‖bon‖vivant,‖everyone’s‖party‖animal,‖ raconteur, matinee idol, rock star, father of the year, deep Zen meditator, Big Wave surfer. He’d‖been‖an‖All‖Round‖Good‖Sort,‖ the very model of a Perfect English Christian Gentleman, a friend to the downtrodden, a champion of‖everyone’s‖civil‖rights‖‖ indeed, a Bodhisattva, a Kosmic-centered Dude of all Dudes.

And yet, now, it must be said plainly, he was the Old Codger, alone in a backwoods trailer with his old hound and crusted coffee pot; or the retired banker, tethered to his penthouse suite by a plastic oxygen tube; or the Alzheimer’s‖inmate,‖reporting‖over‖and‖over‖to the generic ghost office down the hall with its sheets of blank papers, blank folders, staple-less staplers in the desk drawers, set up by the caretakers to mimic that powerful life once lived and left behind, to offer solace and security, so too the continuous hallway that squared the facility in the simplest but, to him, most unfathomable maze that‖always‖brought‖him‖back‖to‖where‖he’d‖started, though where that was he no longer knew.

PAUL A. SZYMANSKI Jewelry Box

The dead talk in quiet taps and nudges Improbable circumstances Postcard manna Doorbell ambrosia Leave no footprints The usual suspects This time it was her scent Jeweled roses Vanilla moons

Unmistakable. I know her M.O. Unopened three decades her jewelry box a leather sarcophagus packed with fanciful baubles souvenirs of a classic mathematics schoolmarm

I was your ordinary tomb raider minding my own business The instant I cracked open the lid it leapt out at me like a lion then licked me like a kitten: the complex scent of Mom Uniquely Mom She can still reach me

Dusty rose and faux diamonds a ruby guitar pin subtle pharaoh earrings African menageries a bracelet of tiger eyes trinkets of jade and ivory laced with her lady’s sweat perfume, humor, toil, pain

The first sniff stunned me like a rogue wave as if a clumsy genie had jumped from its tomb slobbering a wet kiss on my cheek spreading its rose petals secret hieroglyphs riddles, moons and jewels a distant guitar’s apoyando

My chest heaving, filling, emptying filling and trying to hold onto what a treasure of her nonsense a new moment with her present? I closed my eyes trying to clutch it and heard the unmistakable message: Greetings, I am here with you now Yes, everything will be okay You’ll see

D’ELLEN

ash falls from a jaundiced sky firestorm

NANCY SHIFFRIN Our Broken World Post Pandemic September 2020

What will the new spaces look like? a painter speaks of brokenness she goes out at midnight in her van photographs store windows mannequins stripped naked arms mangled legs twisted she paints over the snapshots adds details tricks the eye she treats me to omakase from a restaurant she owns cries out to be remembered

On TV another black man shot peaceful protests once again devolve to riots looting The National Guard called out The Republican National Convention horror stories of fetuses struggling against suction of abortionist's tools exasperated I watch Saint Judy Afghanistani woman broken by rape and battery for teaching women to read fights for asylum her uncle also raped and battered her father and brothers in danger for allowing such a girl to survive no one speaks of contraception

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Crazy for beauty I walk through Bergamot Station dialogues of color cubist still lives underwater beauties I appreciate brokenness sculptor's display of ceramic fragments assembled to a discourse on clowns, dolls, nirvana he shops at flea markets estate sales we wonder at homes full of tsotchkes no one wants to dust masked children crowd Douglas Park running after pigeons and ducks they cannot catch on my favorite street canopied trees cool the atmosphere manicured lawns boast security protection roots crack cement succulents grace sidewalk gardens weeds push startling blooms up into our broken world

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MARGE PIERCY Where Do They Go?

What happens to the egg shells of‖broken‖promises,‖those‖always’s and‖forever’s‖and‖love‖so‖true’s?

Do they rot quietly in the compost? Do their ghosts seep into bedroom walls and sour the air for future lovers?

Do they follow the one who turned liar like clouds of invisible gnats, little voices whispering, Don’t trust?

We all leave debris, detritus of what we intended or didn’t‖really‖but‖faked it for convenience, to escape, or because briefly we put on that oath and tried it out, found something better or shinier and quietly let it drop.

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ANDY PALASCIANO I Have Learned

I have learned that a sail has to be empty to catch the wind. I have learned that I cannot direct the direction a conversation will go any more than I can control the direction the wind will blow. I have learned that I cannot teach myself anything. And the children I taught when I was a Substitute Teacher showed me I cannot teach anyone else either.

If learning is remembering, Substitute Teaching made me and those I attempted to teach want to forget.

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SERETTA MARTIN Letter to Harriet . . .the sun came like gold through the trees, and over the fields, and I felt like I was in heaven. — HARRIET TUBMAN

Harriet, may I call you Minty as your parents did? In this well-known photo I see your brave spirit and determined lower lip. The long dress with white buttons on dark cloth shows your composure and self-discipline pinned at the collar by a ruffle of resolve.

So strong at twenty-five, afraid of being sold, you escaped with infant over the free border into Pennsylvania later saying, When I found I had crossed the line? I looked at my hands to see if I was the same person.

Harriet, how did you manage to re-route the Underground Railroad to Canada, freeing hundreds of slaves, finding safe houses and giving them hope for better lives? They nicknamed you, Moses.

And how did you become a spy during the American Civil War? Then, when you joined forces with John Brown attacking‖slave‖holders‖at‖Harper’s‖Ferry, they called you General Tubman.

So many titles. I wish I could hear your stories first-hand.‖If‖you‖were‖here,‖I’d‖invite‖you to a gathering of women at my home. We’d‖marvel‖at‖your‖journey‖and‖ tell ours over a cup of dandelion tea.

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Harriet Tubman, you belong on the twenty-dollar bill. You deserve to be the first woman with this historical place of honor your immeasurable value circulated hand to hand. If some anyone objects, they can go visit Jefferson at his memorial.

Oh Minty, I want you to know, I was a single mother too.

DEBORAH P KOLODJI

chorus around the bird feeder leaf flutter

105

KAREN KENYON This Wolf

This wolf has been in fairy tales, hunted, hurt, hungry, savaged others has been alone, lone, lone wolf.

But this wolf has a snarling heart knows right from wrong, recognizes the phases of the moon, can control or release her howl, knows those fairy tales are false, that her role was always wrong.

This wolf nurtures her young, yearns for her mate, naps in the winter, licks her fur, does not eat children or grandmothers, sees the future with her yellow sun eyes, walks the ridge beneath the starry sky.

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JUAN FELIPE HERRERA ICU unit

thank you emergency doctors, ICU nurses, first responders

he was ambling around looking for escpe e m ergenc y

doctr says he wants to see his wf

i held him

in my arms after a while he retrnd to his bed

all i can do is hold their hands ICU nurs says

alone no one is allowed so i hold their hands

open a laptop so their famly can say godby she sys

alne ICU whre ar u

— from words of doctors & nurses

107

VALARIE HASTINGS Geese, 1968 for WHH

Recess, early spring. Frozen fields asleep beside the schoolyard, their icy husks rising up around us like hollowed men, air cold & hard in our chests.

A game of four-square in play, slap of India red rubber on black tarmac when our teacher cries,

Look up! Above us an undulating white V cutting the steel plate of sky. I keep a secret in my woolen coat pockets. My father is flying too, somewhere deep inside poofs of Napalm cloud & green jungle sky.

I am six years old with a secret for my father.

Recess, early spring. Air like green ice inside the red pockets of my lungs. Blue plate of sky & these white birds, daddy, their forlorn calls fading, falling across the fields, coming home.

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ESTELLE GILSON Soliloquy at 93

To be present or not to be, that is the question. Whether 'twould enhance my life to be aware of where my feet touch the floor my thighs touch the chair or to set arms against this insistence on mindfulness and by opposing end it.

Let my mind go where it will!

In search of joys that surpass language dreams that surpass understanding to the farthest reaches of the ethereal the invention of futures.

Yet what dreams may come to the mind wandering a reservoir of doomed memories. Sixteen rusted roses a cast off wrist watch a ring refused an unused spade.

Where are my feet?

109

MARIA MAZZIOTTI GILLAN How to Prepare for a Pandemic

My daughter comes back from the store and‖tells‖me‖there’s‖no‖toilet‖paper.‖ All the shelves are bare and we already heard on TV that all the hand sanitizers, handy wipes, and Clorox have disappeared. Don’t worry, I tell my daughter. Even if we don’t have toilet paper, we can use the phonebook or newspaper. People lived without toilet paper for so many years before someone invented it. I tried to think if I know who invented it but‖of‖course,‖I‖can’t remember. One of my friends said he used to use the Sears catalog. But the catalog no longer exists and it looks like maybe Sears stores won’t‖be‖in‖existence‖much‖longer‖either. Meanwhile, my friend writes to tell me that in Rome, it’s‖like‖a‖war‖zone‖there, all the tourist sites are empty, the restaurants shuttered. In the USA, the response to COVID-19 is so bad that‖it’s‖embarrassing‖and‖since‖we‖don’t‖have‖a‖test,‖ we‖don’t‖know‖how‖many‖people‖have‖been‖infected. We try to stay far away from one another, even in small groups.

I think of all the people who ran into the grocery stores to buy up all that toilet paper. Do they plan to eat it if the pandemic lasts for six months? One good thing about growing up poor, is that I learned how to make do. If one thing was not available, you found something else. Maybe the people with huge piles of toilet paper would be willing to trade for food once enough time goes by? 110

The SSTTEEVVEE KKOOWWIITT Poetry Prize 2020

Judge RON SALISBURY Poet Laureate, San Diego Regional Editor, San Diego Poetry Annual

The Kowit Coordinator JEFF WALT Regional Editor, San Diego Poetry Annual

111

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n many ways, it was easy to judge the Kowit Prize in Poetry with my friend Steve Kowit leaning over my I shoulder. We might have argued, a common condition between us, but not disagreed on the choices. And I think of the Prize in future years when judges might not have the firm and supportive hand of Steve assisting. He would have approved my choices this year.

When Pigs Could Fly by Valarie Hastings: The Kowit Prize

Ezra‖Pound‖warned‖us,‖‚go‖in‖fear‖of‖abstraction.‛‖But‖not‖if‖ you’re‖Valarie Hastings who takes a used adynaton and pulls its‖imbedded‖meaning‖in‖such‖new‖ways‖that‖it’s‖no‖longer‖a‖ strict abstraction or hyperbolic exaggeration, but a metaphor, sparkling, clear and eventually poignant for us to compare to our world, our society today. Valarie Hastings doubles down including phrases‖ ‚pigs,‛‖ ‚other‖ white‖ meat,‛ ‚when‖ hell‖ freezes‖over‛‖and‖gets‖away‖with‖it.‖Not‖only‖gets‖away‖with‖it‖ but brings these used, common phrases into relevance for our self-reflection in the modern, complicated world we inhabit. Great Job. Great Poem.

Parenthood3 by Terri Niccum: Runner-up

Terri Niccum describes what is entailed in raising a family, all those elements and disasters no one can tell us about, or if they‖tell‖us,‖we‖don’t‖really‖understand.‖‚I‖was‖never enough, never‖had‖enough‖/‖time‖to‖know‖What’s‖going‖on?‖And‖/‖who‖ the‖ hell‖ can‖ make‖ a‖ good‖ decision‖ /‖ with‖ milk‖ on‖ the‖ floor?‛‖ Sound familiar? Terri Niccum moves from the idea of family, the actual, and then the agony of those birds moving on from the nest‖ and‖ the‖ hollow‖ emptiness‖ left.‖ ‚I‖ couldn’t‖ keep‖ the‖ quiet‖out‖of‖my‖ears.‛

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Second Runners-up: a tie

In Front of the Cold Fireplace by Harry Griswold and Trying Out My New Superhero Powers After the Bears Pass by Karla Morton

Surprisingly, the third prize was the most difficult: the choice‖ of‖ form‖ or‖ strict‖ lyric?‖ So,‖ I‖ didn’t‖ choose.‖ ‖ Both‖ are‖ winners.

A form poem must first be a great, risky poem and then it can be an example of a good pantoum. Harry Griswold hits all the keys of risk — risk too much sentimentality and you fail, not‖risk‖enough‖and‖it’s‖banal.‖‖But‖Harry‖Griswold‖stays‖safely on the edge of risk and asks the important questions of our power over others, animal and by extension, humans.

And the most lyric of all I chose; the contemporary lyric which reaches inside, not specifically outside for its power, images‖and‖resonance.‖Don’t‖we‖all‖question‖if‖we‖can‖make‖a‖ wish‖or‖grant‖one?‖Read‖Karla‖Morton‘s‖poem‖and‖experience‖ the power of totem and the lyric poem today.

— RON SALISBURY

Judge of The Kowit 2020 Poet Laureate, San Diego Regional Editor, San Diego Poetry Annual

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THE 2020 STEVE KOWIT POETRY PRIZE $1000

When Pigs Could Fly: VALARIE HASTINGS

Runner-up: $250 Parenthood3: TERRI NICCUM

Second Runners-up: $100 each

In Front of the Cold Fireplace: HARRY GRISWOLD

Trying Out My New Super Hero Powers After the Bears Pass: KARLA MORTON

HONORABLE MENTION

& for God’s Sake, Humming by Susan Browne Here by Susan Browne

Apricity by Donald Clermont

Falling Through the Cracks by Dick Eiden East of Hollywood by Dick Eiden

There’s Tunnel Yet at the End of Our Light by James Ellenberger

Identity Theft by Alexis Rhone Fancher

Started at the Convent by Numertha Geisinger

Talking to No Purpose by Mai-Lon Gittelsohn

Between Gazer & Facsimile by Jonathan Greenhause

Brainbleed by Molly Hart

If Joy Were a Hit and Run by Valarie Hastings Love Poem in a Pandemic by Valarie Hastings

When I am Cold by Tracey Knapp

Erasure by Steve McDonald

Credence Clearwater Revival by Melissa McKinstry

Her Angel Whispered, Ut Si Vellet by Joseph D. Milosch

Perfume by Gary Powell

Gender Keeps Me Awake at Night by Arien Reed

Seeking a Cure for Lovesickness by Kaitlin Reynolds

Abilene by Patricia Williams 115

THE KOWIT 2020

VALARIE HASTINGS When Pigs Could Fly

The first wave came in undulating V-formations, piglets tiny as pugs drifting over streets in Minneapolis, Washington in late spring. Later, pot bellies could be seen overhead like jumbo jets, followed, some say, by great Palawan bearded sows all the way from the Asian archipelago. These were long-haul flights, miracles really, island-hopped across the Pacific to San Francisco, Walnut Creek. The people were afraid, at first, shut their doors, closed their blinds so as not to be judged by pigs passing outside their windows. But they began to notice how the pigs worked, in pairs, the way they circled their pen mates as each first sprouted wings, the pierce of feather and bone through such soft flesh painful but shouldered so bravely, and even as they transformed, the pigs remained true to themselves, compassionate, cheerful even, some opening the gates of their captivity to let the others out, a small passel at first, then the unstoppable droves of youngsters pushing through in places like Sioux City Iowa, Northfield Minnesota, Clinton, North Carolina. They self-taught take-off and landing techniques, giving themselves names like Zoomer, Barky and Mad Max, always clean and fond of order. The tide began to change‖and‖there‖was‖a‖move‖to‖take‖the‖word‖‚porker‛‖out‖of‖ the dictionary entirely, while the farmers stood agape, sounders of swine taking flight over their still-frozen fields and over the towns of helmeted cops who we had stopped calling ‚pigs,‛‖ who‖ we‖ had‖ stopped‖ calling‖ ‚cops‛‖ because‖ they‖ too‖ were humbled and awed by what they saw in the sky. But there were also the bacon lovers and pulled pork eaters, the sausage‖ and‖ scrapple‖ dreamers,‖ the‖ ‚other‖ white‖ meat‛‖ wanters who started their own movement,‖‚when‖Hell‖freezes over,‛‖ who‖ objected‖ to‖ the‖ removal‖ of‖ words‖ from‖ the‖ past,

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those who were so fearful of change they could no longer parse nuance between black-spotted and pink. How could they be blamed for what others had eaten before them? And what then about the others next it would be the bovines, the salmon, deer and cocks in their strutting red and yellow feathers seeking reparation. It was a dark time difficult for us to imagine, so long before we were born, when the whole world was locked down, pulled apart, afraid of dying, a time when mothers told their own daughters, There will come a day when we part ways, over which news channel you watch. Anger burned. And the land was a rage of promise. The mothers and fathers who had lost so much, grandmothers, grandfathers, sisters, brothers, aunts, uncles whose contract with this world was broken, dreams caught in the throat, they were afraid too of how things repeat but never change. But then the pigs flew, they kept flying, day after day that year, it was irrefutable, the fact of their earth-bound bodies lifted up over the darkened houses, flying! There were some who said it would never happen.

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RUNNER-UP TERRI NICCUM Parenthood³

One morning I woke to find a for-lease sign on‖my‖arms‖full‖of‖Campbell’s‖Soup‖and‖Seven‖Up and dresses stretched through one more summer and how long, Lord, playing piper to the nightmare? To‖each‖one’s‖different‖nightmare? My own sleep a jagged interruption, and never a decent stick of furniture, just those applesauce ceilings, and days that seemed a total loss but for every now and then a smile – not at me – but her smile at the way the cat jumped that‖I‖saw‖when‖she‖didn’t‖know‖I‖was‖looking. That and the light tangling in her too-fine hair. Sure, those first weeks of heated milk and pabulum and spit up and heated milk I thought I would go insane, but after the getting through it bit the swings swung up red sneakers and blue squeals, and it was almost enough some moments just to hear him singing, off key, Little Red Caboose. Still, very little of it was expected – neither the apostrophe nor the sledgehammer. Before this rude beginning I was growing to a certain point and‖then‖it‖couldn’t‖matter at all. My thoughts had to be saved like loose buttons hoping for the appropriate coat. But she was lovely, briefly, in the white dress before the chocolate spilled. And always, all of them, always running to me and then, always running away. I was never enough, never had enough time to know What’s going on? And who the hell can make a good decision

118 with milk on the floor? I used to let my mind go blank, just blank, when the me me’s‖started.

For awhile, I resorted to watching animals at the zoo preening their young. But no sooner had I rendered my young presentable than they started leaving the house on their own and the worry almost killed me. But I never told my mother about the car that almost smashed and how my heart whirled round the bicycle wheel with the bent spoke and I sat for a whole day that day in a rocker by the window with the shade drawn down, and the middle one brought me soup.

And God, I could never sew, and finally the oldest, the kindest one, said, Mother, there are perfectly good dresses in stores. I remember the hurrying more than the events. The driving, I was always driving someone somewhere half awake, but my life was half awake. But when he stood up in church for communion perfect in the stained light except for a scab on his nose from a fight with his younger brother, I think I did cry then. I swear, most of the time love wasn’t‖a‖factor.‖It‖was‖just‖ living with this massive beachhead invasion, this occupation that was going on for so long that when I woke up that morning to the last bird flown leaving behind nothing but outgrown clothes and books, for the life of me I‖couldn’t‖keep‖the‖quiet‖out‖of‖my‖ears.

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SECOND RUNNER-UP HARRY GRISWOLD In Front of the Cold Fireplace

We let the final act happen yesterday though we don't believe in capital punishment some will scoff, after all he was only a dog. Besides didn't he have a growing tumor deep in his throat?

Still it felt like we believed in harsh punishment when the vet came with her lethal drugs, never mind that some will scoff he was only a dog, his four legs were half those walking around here.

The vet came quietly with her lethal drugs, first a peaceful sedative, then no turning back and we lost half the legs that walked around here he died on his bed in front of the cold fireplace.

The first dose went peacefully, then no turning back the large house feels wanting of his small presence, he died on his bed by the hollow fireplace. We who stroked him as he did feel empty like the large house wanting of a small presence. Presence is more than size, it's ways, it's routines, and we who stroked him as he died feel empty today, we thought we were prepared, but no, we weren't.

The loss is more than size, it's his ways, his routines, we look around, look for him, we want to feel him near. It's true no one can be prepared, and so we weren't, we begin to shape new routine today out of formlessness.

With all of our looking for him we feel he must be near. The power we used over him is an awful thing we're left to shape new routine from formlessness, without nose-nudge hellos or his trademark topknot.

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We'll wonder about the awful power we used, did we avert a worse end by slow strangulation? We're left without hellos, the topknot that was so him we let the euthanasia go ahead yesterday.

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SECOND RUNNER-UP KARLA MORTON Trying Out My New Superhero Powers After the Bears pass

Tonight, again, two bears lumbering this Raton neighborhood, momma and cub, stopping at every cottonwood tree on the block that junior may have a go of it: scuttling three to four feet up, then down again till the next yard, neighbours’‖faces‖at‖each‖glass.‖

These bears = my people, my sign, my spirit animal, marking massive maps in the sidewalk muds, clawed arrows in the trees, their totem in gold around my neck.

Every night they ramble in jarring astrals of energy rendering something; some lesson, some wisdom.

Bulky brown stardust; four-pawed beasts bursting my lawn like meteors.

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I walk out to the grass after they pass, not sure of my new powers – not sure if I could make a wish, or grant one.

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SUSAN BROWNE & For God’s Sake, Humming

Right before the shaky architecture of the world collapsed, before the days started stacking on top of themselves like empty boxes, I was doing something as normal as sitting in Caliber Collision. I’d‖driven‖to‖the‖Sierras‖to‖see‖my‖niece‖ for her birthday & on the way a flying cooler smashed into my front bumper & careened up to the windshield & I believed all hell was going to break loose in my face, but‖the‖glass‖didn’t‖shatter,‖I‖didn’t‖drive‖over‖the‖cliff. I continued up the mountain as if Zeus had offered momentary mercy although a few weeks later no mercy for thousands, the virus stalking in its black boots. That was the last time I went out of town & Caliber Collision keeps calling me to bring the car in to finish the fixing &‖if‖it’s‖a‖problem, they‖can‖pick‖up‖&‖deliver,‖they’ll‖wear‖protective‖clothing,‖ it’ll‖be‖safe. Safety is a pavilion made of eggshells & feathers, a cyclone approaching. I was taught this by Camus & also by my mother who died in a car crash while on a journey to buy towels on sale. This morning I read an email from my student who is a single mother & recovering alcoholic with three small children at home &‖she’s‖so‖sorry‖ she‖couldn’t‖complete‖her‖assignment‖this‖week‖because‖ she’s‖been‖hit‖ by depression & will try to do the work when she can although she‖knows‖she’ll‖lose‖points.

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I told her not to worry about the points. The point is I‖can’t‖stop‖thinking‖about her & what can I do? I keep thinking about spring, too, April beauty scratching your eyes out & the night is full of owls who-whoing‖who’s‖next. It’s‖hard‖to‖live‖ even‖in‖normal‖times,‖what’s‖normal‖about‖living,‖ trying to pull the arrows out from between your ribs? I read an interview with Jack Kornfield who says he‖doesn’t‖know how long it will be, but let us do the most magnificent work we can do. My husband is making a garden, building a system for the plants‖so‖he‖doesn’t‖waste‖water.‖ He’s‖sawing‖wood‖right‖now‖&‖for‖God’s‖sake,‖humming.‖ I thought I loved him all these years, but‖love‖doesn’t‖come‖close‖ to what I feel for him these days.

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SUSAN BROWNE Here after Arthur Sze

Here one wishes to be a fish under the dark mirror of creek water. Here one wishes to be a goldfinch resting on the lip of a pool. Here the turquoise art of swimming pools. Here tile roofs. Here tank tops, flip-flops. Here the worship of air conditioner. Here many Ford trucks, one with a sign on the back window: The driver picks the music. The shotgun shuts his cakehole. Here deer nap in the shade by the recycling can. Here mosquitoes give hickeys. Here one walks for miles through the famous park, thinking, I can live here. Here The Adventures of Robin Hood starring Errol Flynn was filmed. Here horses suddenly. Here the dog rules. Here Brahms playing outside the 7-11. Here rice, cypress, almond, Sierra Nevada beer. Here the abandoned barn in a field the color of beach grass. Here the train pulled into the station & the tracks disappeared into camellias. Here one still quakes at the curb, the nervous new kid on the block.

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Here‖one’s‖heart‖stands‖in‖a‖hallway‖wondering‖ where‖one’s‖room‖is. Here one searches for a home. Here one misses home & tires of missing home. Here the art of letting go. Here nostalgia useless as a button in a drawer that forgot which shirt. Here warm wind ancient as sunset. Here magenta sky. Here a fox in dry sage dreams of winter. Here a squirrel sunbathes like a lizard. Here a bobcat strolls by with 108 degree August heat in its mouth. Here weather has the power, striking like lightning. Here one knows the earth will survive us. Here hawks on telephone poles, kestrels on lamp posts. Here‖dust‖like‖satin‖on‖one’s‖ankles. Here one may end the journey & return as a Blue Oak.

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DONALD CLERMONT Apricity noun: (obsolete) the warmth of the sun in winter

If‖I’m‖stale‖almonds,‖you’re‖the‖celeste‖ in‖Tchaikovsky’s‖Nutcracker. When‖I’m‖dried-up leaves wet in the rain, you’re‖The‖Silent‖Damage‖Clogged‖Gutters‖ Do to Your Home.

You’re‖a‖neon‖sign‖that‖reads‖LIVE NUDES, and‖I’m‖a‖state-worker drunk on payday. If‖you’re‖napalm‖jelly,‖I’m‖Czech‖hedgehogs‖ suntanned along the beach.

You’re‖high‖as‖hell‖like‖the‖cumulonimbi‖and I’m‖a‖tree‖frog‖in‖the‖pine,‖cumming‖nimbly.‖ You’re‖antacid‖and‖I’m‖peptic‖ulcers, what I mean to say is: if‖I’m‖White‖Zinfandel,‖you’re‖September.

Wringing out a wet cloth into the sink, you say you want more for us. I try to picture it— another dead plant persists in decorating your apartment.

You’re‖my‖favorite‖winter months, the biting wind and the tepid breeze.

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DICK EIDEN East of Hollywood

I‖saw‖Timothy‖Leary‖in‖the‖men’s‖room‖ of‖Carlos‖and‖Charlie’s‖on‖Sunset‖Boulevard standing at a urinal and said hello.

There was valet parking and a large oval bar glittering upstairs in the banquet room where servers stood straight and tall.

We lived down Sunset in Silverlake, old neighborhood crowded with immigrants & long time residents, narrow streets all parked up in‖hills‖far‖from‖Carlos‖and‖Charlie’s,‖The‖Strip,‖ and the Whiskey. We had second-hand stores a laundromat, Carnival Cuban Coffee and Ice Cream, the‖Hollywood‖Free‖Clinic‖and‖Tom’s‖Burger‖#7.‖ The liquor store at Parkman had pinball machines and 117 stone steps to our street, coming out on the corner where I lost them after chasing two robbers I found climbing in a back window. I kept a wood stick near the front door and surprised them bursting off the porch waving the big stick and screaming wild fuck shit kill till I lost them around a corner, running like rabbits.

Tim, who once taught at Harvard, had a regular gig he called Stand Up Conversation which implies no comedy, but ripped the big lies, revealing an Emperor with no clothes, a nutty old man behind the Emerald curtain with a bottle of whiskey, a full ashtray, and a gun.

Tim‖said‖‚Women‖who‖seek‖to‖be‖equal‖to‖men‖ lack‖ambition‛‖and‖we‖laughed,‖but‖maybe‖it’s‖time‖ to let women run things for the next thousand years.

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DICK EIDEN Falling Through the Cracks a Pandemic Pantoum

Rounding off the numbers now four hundred died yesterday, each day numbers rise as death virus spreads inward from cities on the coasts

Four hundred died yesterday one third in the Big Apple, moving inward from cities on coasts like Miami Beach parties on Spring Break

One third died in the Big Apple where students returned from Daytona and Miami Beach parties on Spring Break and mingled with students from Michigan

Students returned from Daytona and Mardi Gras in New Orleans to homes and mingled with Michigan students and families going to work, like it or not

Mardi Gras in New Orleans rocked the economy, paid bills for families who must go to work, like it or not, trapped in hospitals & behind cash registers

The economy pays bills for families as attention shifts toward those trapped in hospitals & behind cash registers just now getting sneeze guards and PPE the‖world’s‖attention‖shifts‖toward nurses & cashiers, plumbers & police now getting sneeze guards and PPE so they can go home to their families.

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Nurses and cashiers, plumbers & police four hundred died yesterday wanting to be home at night, not among those souls swiftly falling through the cracks.

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JAMES ELLENBERGER There’s Tunnel Yet at the End of Our Light

Two boys set pennies on the tracks. They love each other like stained glass does dawn.

The‖train’s‖conductor‖is‖a‖deadline nursing two ruptured discs and a Camel.

He was once a lush, but has gotten help. He’s‖learned‖to‖reflect,‖to‖dream‖on‖his‖feet.

It’s‖okay‖to‖want‖to‖see‖two‖boys‖bisected. It’s‖okay‖to‖want‖to‖see‖a‖man‖who‖will‖never‖recover‖ swigging the last of his flask while clutching the top half of a boy who‖can’t‖speak‖but‖whose‖eyes‖dart‖wild‖and‖dim. It’s‖okay‖to‖secretly‖want‖to‖be‖on‖the‖train when it happens; to be stuttering along the ennui of wire fences in some back country you‖might’ve‖once‖called‖home when the brakes squeal and sparks lift like pollen.

It’s‖okay‖to‖have‖found‖ourselves‖making‖poetry of headlines and obedient bones to join the ranks of self-anointed haruspices who paw at spilled guts for the sake of art.

There’s‖no‖headline,‖however,‖and‖no‖body‖count. The train contours the hills aptly as a razor.

The boys tug at the air when it passes. Nine times out of ten, the conductor obliges.

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Then the boys collect the bent pennies. They‖kneel‖beside‖the‖train’s‖warm,‖concurrent‖wake, pressing their cheeks to the steel while a faceless sun flattens itself against their bodies.

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ALEXIS RHONE FANCHER Identity Theft

I’m‖telling‖you,‖I‖don’t‖know‖who‖I‖am.‖No‖one‖else‖knows,‖ either.‖ I’ve‖ lost‖ my‖ phone,‖ my‖ money,‖ my‖ keys‖ and‖ ID.‖ And‖ now‖ I‖ can’t‖ find‖ my‖ boy.‖ Maybe‖ it’s‖ a‖ robbery,‖ or‖ just‖ a‖ bad‖ dream. The one where night falls early. The one where dead family shows up, and Cory, the first-grade‖ bully‖ who’d‖ shadow me home, and the creepy neighbor with grabby hands from‖when‖I‖was‖ten.‖And‖there’s‖Raul,‖a‖man‖I‖had‖a‖crush‖on‖ in college. And my younger sister, deus ex machina, who swoops to my rescue (again) and gives me a twenty, but it blows away. When I ask her for another she shrugs, mutters something our mom used to say, about not throwing good money after bad. The man-crush from college asks me to lunch at‖a‖dingy‖cafeteria,‖so‖I‖know‖it‖must‖be‖a‖dream.‖Raul’s‖been‖ missing for decades. Presumed down over the Pacific, I overheard at our reunion. At the counter, I order grilled cheese on‖ whole‖ wheat,‖ my‖ son’s‖ favorite.‖ Hard‖ to‖ fuck‖ up‖ grilled‖ cheese. Raul, in front of me in line, pays, I think, for both of us. But the cashier‖puts‖out‖his‖hand,‖says,‖That’ll‖be‖$5.50,‖please.‖ Then I wake up hungry. And my ID, keys, and my boy are still gone.‖ It’s‖ one‖ of‖ those‖ days,‖ straw‖ yellow‖ light,‖ windless.‖ Second summer they call it, that brief, ephemeral part of October brimming with magic and hot, torpid air. Days listless as my sister recovering from a summer cold, as still as my dead son.

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NUMERTHA GEISINGER Started at the Convent for Ekta

Started‖at‖the‖convent,‖now‖we’re‖in‖star-pine and lily skies. Once beaten by rulers, by nuns, stabbed with pencils by two-braids pre-teens, we stand on the deck, counting spots on the underside of the wings of whales. We eat large meals, drink Santa Barbara wine, and discuss how Victoria was the first to wear white. Will you wear red? They tied our hair in black ribbons so tight, clumps of curls would fall on the marigolds. Here you are with your hair grazing, billowing to your elbows. I do not know you the way that Phillips does. I may not even love you well. Tonight

I think of how far you walked from vampires in the Himalayas to gentle giants in the Monterey bay, and may all who rage against you be disgraced, and all that oppose you walk the plank. Though you search for your enemies, may you not find them, for those who war against you are nothing at all.

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MAI-LON GITTELSOHN Talking to No Purpose

The Lees arrive carrying white pastry boxes. Smell of savory pork buns and steamed dumplings flood the air. Mama brings out the thermos, pours hot oolong tea, gestures to me Stay here. I hide behind the pages of Nancy Drew all-American Girl Detective, stealing a glance at the son, 11 year-old Little Lee. My ears, dumb to the smattering of words intoned with Cantonese inflection sounds sliding up and down the scale, become dumb.

Is‖this‖‚talking to no purpose,” a ritual exchange of questions and answers that offer no real information? Years later, I learn about a visit that was intended to arrange a marriage between a young son and a young daughter. That young daughter, only 10, that young son squirming in his chair paid no attention to‖this‖‚talking‖to‖no‖purpose.‛

I tell my daughter to drive safely and she says, I will. We both know I am saying, I love you and she is saying, I know you do.

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JONATHAN GREENHAUSE Between Gazer & Facsimile

His beard was a huddle of swallows nesting for the coming Spring; his ears church bells clanging to awaken his better self. His belly was a roiling boiler wrecking loose his rotten moorings, agitated cells waltzing with carcinogens. His anxiety was a rusted edge lending a half-buried threat of tetanus to‖his‖psyche’s‖barefoot‖pilgrims,‖shellshocked‖soldiers‖ gone AWOL, a poorly-stitched pocket shedding its worth. The angry earth sundered beneath him, was the rift between monarchists & Jacobeans, a Thanksgiving feast confronted with a‖Jonestown‖famine’s‖reckoning,‖how‖ a looking glass gets plastered with intricate images but ignores the blank space between gazer & facsimile. Winter gnashes his bones, quashes his fires warding off the cold in potholed streets, neighbors hissing at him like serpents recreating his fall from Eden, his will become a rain-drenched paper twisting in the wind.

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MOLLY HART Brainbleed

i. the fall

It‖wasn’t‖that‖bad at first, the day after your birthday, when you left and I thought you might come home you‖couldn’t‖speak,‖but‖you‖still‖smiled there was a slight emptiness on sunny days, when daylight hit the living room chair a simple reminder of a blank brokenness, something‖that‖should’ve‖been‖but‖wasn’t a hole gaping in the middle of your mind

ii. the adjustment

It‖wasn’t‖that‖bad for a while, when we read you stories from a past life and I pushed your hair back from your rusting forehead you penciled out symbols on paper, strange characters that‖should’ve‖been‖words‖but‖ fell short of comprehension

iii. the struggle

It‖wasn’t‖that‖bad later, when your rattled breathing echoed across the room your brain dying in real time, the stench of bleach and morphine they‖don’t‖tell‖you‖about‖that‖last‖bit,‖when‖the‖drugs‖ make your skin go gray and your breath smell like rotten, floating fish

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iv. the release

It‖wasn’t‖that‖bad at the end, when I sat in the scratchy green chair with the shell of you, holding bare husks of paper hands thin veins running empty like spiderwebs eyes closed, we pretended you slept I called for you and wept your name But your mouth just yawned open like it would swallow me whole

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VALARIE HASTINGS If Joy Were a Hit and Run from The Top 10 Questions to Ask After a Hit and Run

Can you explain in your own words what happened?

We were searching for fossils. Slippery, slimy, emerald-cool water pouring over the smooth stones in‖the‖creek‖behind‖my‖friend‖Sonja’s‖house‖ in those after school afternoons that would come to mean so much, learning to trust the feel of moss underfoot.

Can you identify the color, make, model?

A red muscled car speeding into the dazzled star struck summer of my seventeenth year with a boy whose name I no longer recall, one hand on the wheel the other on my bare knee, but also this: the unexpected discharge of light from gut straight into thrilled pistons of the heart when my father drove me fast over that certain curvature in the road on the way home.

A joy ride we called it.

What were you doing before it hit you?

I was thinking about a silk moth I saw in Big Sur on a July night in my forties with a complete stranger. Our paths crossed. We spoke no words, besotted by such invertebrate beauty, wings opened in a giant fan beneath damp porch light, the only sound our shared breath. We moved closer to consider the intricate hieroglyphics on its chiseled back, the hours and hours it must have taken its maker to paint them on, the rippled waves of color passing through us both, white, red, tan. Why is this what I remember?

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Where are you now?

Open the book. It tells us to rejoice in the land or was it the Lord that‖night‖in‖my‖father’s‖kitchen‖ when he said into the phone, I don’t like people that are happy right now or was it, I don’t trust happy anymore? I meant to write it down but no longer remember the feel of his arms around me.

Were there any witnesses?

A grove of Eucalyptus watched from inside their green dreadlocks. Later, a storm came up over the Pacific, a curtain of wet steel that struck the windshield in silver sparks. It felt like something could happen.

What did you do afterward?

I lay down on my back and looked at the stars. My god, the stars.

Is there anything else I should know?

I snorkeled in a blue-green lagoon with a man I loved. I was afraid in the water at first but he held my hand inside his own as we submerged and the heat that burned down from all the coronas of the sun filled my lungs with light, made me see how I could breathe underwater.

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VALARIE HASTINGS Love Poem in a Pandemic

We escape today w/a full tank & nowhere to go, you driving hard through a spring rain into the Presidio where the ragged fairytale trunks of Eucalyptus are gathered like something new, silvered leaves taking flight, flaunting their freedoms. Now look at the wiper blades, how they flex their mechanical muscle over the windshield striped blue with rain, clearing then blurring our vision, at these two red-tailed hawks steadily circling a patch of light on the wet fields, how you & I emerge on the empty highway as though startled from a dark sleep, the famous bridge half-appearing from inside the rain-lit air like an unexpected force luminous in the clear gray of the afternoon. Crossing over, the way our shoulders relax ever slightly, my breath slowing, regulating for the first time all week, like driving inside an abandoned cathedral, its great red arc pushing into heaven as the road spray washes over us. We take the Sausalito exit, emptied of tourists, pull over & park, still vacuum-sealed in our getaway machine, the‖city’s‖silence‖echoing‖back‖at‖us‖from‖across‖the‖bay, blue-black & endless. Still there. I kiss you then, your neck straining over the seat belt and say something like, This is really romantic & you say, Yes it is &‖the‖heart’s‖engines‖kick‖up‖again.‖

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TRACEY KNAPP When I Am Cold

When I sneeze at night, the stray dogs moan. The smoked paprika spills to the kitchen floor in a pile of dense dust when I am sad. When a pheasant crosses a double lane, the cars jamb the street in a pause that resembles poetry. When people read poetry, they slow down for what seems to be an irregularity: a pheasant darting across a city road.

When I drive through the country, I am engulfed by a crossing of‖fifty‖pheasants.‖It’s‖only‖a‖crossing when there is a conflict of direction. I pause at the stop sign in New Marshfield, Ohio. It is dawn and there are no other cars in sight. The frost clings to the ground for its final moments. I exhale through my mouth to see my own dense breath and I am alone.

When I am alone, I huddle against a down pillow. I like to be cold when I am alone. Most solitary objects do. When I am an object, I am also a subject. Most women know how that goes. After I sleep with a woman, I wake and leave the room.

When I wake, I sneeze and huddle on the couch in the dark. I hold a hot mug to my nose, huff the lemon and paprika tea that is meant to clear your toxins when you are low. I am low, but for the strays follow me home. They love the pheasant bones.

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STEVE MCDONALD Erasure

I’ve‖been‖told‖the‖moon‖was‖visible‖in‖the‖morning‖sky‖ the day the wave broke over the children and their father as‖they‖played‖on‖the‖rocky‖shore.‖I’ve‖been‖told‖ it was pale but full and low in the west, ready to sink into the sea as the two young ones but not the dad drowned. And I was, of course, devastated for this family that I did not even know, and then I saw the photo of them taken days before the wave that took the children, Mom hugging her seven-year-old daughter, Dad lifting his four-year-old son, all of them all smiles. They were about the ages of my own daughter and her husband and their daughter and their son. And as I cast about for ground that did not suck my feet in like quickened sand, I turned to poetry, to Sophocles long ago / Heard it on the Aegean, to About suffering they were never wrong, / The Old Masters, to It is the blight man was born for / It is Margaret you mourn for. I was looking for anything to hold against the dark, even a glimmer of‖resignation‖would‖do.‖I’ve‖heard‖that‖everything‖ in our world is commingled with everything else. Call it physics. Call it consciousness. Call it love. I have heard the moon is as much a part of and at one with these drowned children as I am, yet this morning the moon seems only a massive chunk of rock ripped from the belly of the earth four-and-a-half billion years ago when from the maelstrom of our proto-solar-system some proto-planet smashed into our still forming world.

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In the silence, I hear my own breathing. I hear the roll of a tiny moon at the tip of my pen spreading ink on a page. In the distance I hear the faint rolling drone of an engine on a plane. May it carry its passengers safely somewhere. Wolf Moon, Old Moon, Ice Moon, watch here with me as you spin yet again on your axis.

145

JOSEPH D. MILOSCH Her Angel Whispered, Ut Si Vellet He’d Want It Like That

When my wife began to lose her mind, I realized our guardian angels talked to each other. This happened ‘cause‖my‖wife‖accidentally‖started‖a‖fire‖in‖the‖kitchen. She tried to extinguish the blaze with a paper bag. Before she screamed, something urged me to rush into the kitchen, pick up the skillet, toss it in the basin, and douse the flames. Her shrieks, the banging of pan against porcelain sink, and the smoke streaming out the window attracted the neighbors.

As a pair of doves flew from the bottle bush nearest our‖window,‖I‖heard‖worry‖in‖the‖couple’s‖voices.‖I‖knew if‖my‖wife‖and‖I‖had‖been‖Irish,‖our‖neighbors‖would’ve‖said, ‚Lord,‖deliver‖us‖from‖the‖fury‖of‖the‖O’Flattery’s!‛ I thought about screaming, but my guardian angel Placed‖in‖my‖mouth‖the‖words.‖‚No‖harm,‖no‖foul,‛ and once said, I had to live by them. For the first time since we married, I sat in the kitchen and read when she cooked.

‚Why‖are‖you‖reading‖in‖here‖after‖all‖these‖years?‛‖she‖ asked. ‚So,‖you‖won’t‖have‖to‖yell‖when‖you‖want‖me,‛‖I‖ replied. ‚Tell‖me‖why,‛‖she‖said. ‚Why‖what?‛ ‚Why.‖.‖.nothing,‛‖her‖smoky‖answer.

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That was the start. Soon, I chopped cilantro, cebolla, and papas. After that, she took my place at the table. In the beginning, she gave instructions. Then, she watched. Later, I brought her into the kitchen. At first, she wore a small bib then, a bath towel, and finally, a beach towel and a shower cap. One day, I began to feed her. Then, hospice came and placed her bed in the living room. Her mother moved in. I hired a nurse. Soon, Patsy stopped talking. Later, she stopped eating.

The day her friend, Suzie Martinez, visited, our guardian angels held a conference. As the women turned Patsy, a winged spirit placed‖my‖hands‖on‖my‖wife’s‖face.‖She‖opened‖her‖eyes, looked at me, and died. With the aid of my thumbs, I closed her eyes. ‚Mom.‖Suzie,‛‖I‖said,‖and‖then,‖ my meager Spanish failed me, and I‖couldn’t‖remember‖how‖to‖say‖she‖died. Breathing on my lips, my guardian angel gave me these words, ‚Patsy‖ha‖cerrado‖sus‖ojos‖para‖todo‖siempre.‛ Patsy has closed her eyes forever.

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MELISSA MCKINSTRY Credence Clearwater Revival for my father (July 30, 1938-March 29, 2020)

Heat saturates the sky like a Rothko, orange and red. A‖gin‖and‖tonic‖melts‖in‖each‖glass.‖We’re‖sweating in the Idaho panhandle–the whole family come‖to‖celebrate‖Dad’s‖80th–strung out on deck chairs, waiting on the porch for the cool offshore breeze. Even the deep green shade of tamaracks feels heavy, and watching the lake is a kind of suffocation. A brassy glare off the water shines on the Hobie’s‖old‖mast,‖lines‖still.‖ Only the zither of crickets now. We’re‖in‖the‖forge‖with‖Hephaestus,‖molten,‖ ready to be shaped. And then, the fuzz of the needle finds the groove – Credence‖Clearwater’s‖‚Green‖River‛‖at‖medium‖blare – trademark riff, Fogerty drawl. Dad‖slips‖from‖the‖cabin’s‖shadow, screen door slapping behind him, grins, and starts a little shuffle in his mocs, and‖we’re‖all‖up,‖swaying‖along‖now. Yes, the world is smolderin’, but‖if‖there’s‖a‖world‖ after this one, I hope‖I’m‖a‖back-up singer for the band, tambourine and harmony, a few moves. I‖hope‖I’m‖the‖offshore‖breeze, finally exhaling down the mountain as the sky fades to violet, Venus rising, that needle grazing the vinyl.

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PATRICIA AYA WILLIAMS Abilene my angel stares down stars in parking lots, wears leather and lamplight, slings her halo like a lariat she’s‖Texas‖tough at home in bars like‖the‖one‖I’m‖in‖now tent pitched for the night she lunges, opens her wings faster than double- struck lightning, heaps my scarecrow body onto the flat back of a borrowed pickup truck do they loan those out in heaven, I wonder as she hauls ass past freeway exits right turns to home, her whiskeyed alto murmuring when will they ever learn

149

GARY V. POWELL Perfume

I once witnessed a woman run naked from a house, like a sunny-side- up egg yolk running across a plate.

Sturdy and fragile at the same time, she dashed past, hard, lean muscles gleaming white beneath a street light.

Wearing only her Covid mask, she trailed a fragrance reminiscent of a perfume my ex-wife used to wear.

The‖man‖she’d‖bolted‖from‖stood‖in his doorway, also naked, looking like a fat gerbil whose treadmill has broken.

He held a wisp of clothes in one hand and asked from behind his homemade‖mask‖if‖I’d‖seen‖her.

About so high, he said, about yay big around, he motioned, maybe naked or nearly so, he noted.

My ex-wife’s‖family‖owned‖an apple orchard, and the barn where they pressed cider smelled of the essence of apples, sweet and musky, pungent and ripe. But she was not the kind of woman who made love in an apple barn or under an apple tree, and surely not the kind of woman

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who ran naked in the night or called naked from a doorway or wandered dark streets alone.

And I pretended for as long as I could that I was not the kind of man who wanted to run naked in broad daylight, like a clear, clean mountain stream teaming with trout with wide open mouths and untamed hearts.

I’m‖not‖even‖sure‖anymore‖ where she lives, what perfume she‖wears,‖or‖who‖she’s‖married‖to.

From behind my own mask, I told the‖man‖in‖the‖doorway‖I’d‖seen‖ nothing,‖and‖he‖said‖all‖he’d‖wanted was to kiss her, a real kiss, lips on lips, maybe a little tongue, he was so tired of‖trying‖to‖be‖someone‖he‖wasn’t.

151

KAITLIN REYNOLDS Seeking a Cure for Lovesickness

I consider asking my father for advice, try to count all the ways that'd be ironic and fitting and wrong: The man who broke his family with want for another, the man who didn't even get her in the end Christ, the wastefulness the man who wound up alone and wanting still, only now it's changed direction, now he looks back on the years like a manuscript in need of editing, as if there ought to be a chapter right here, to feel my mother sigh against him and taste her gnocchi, polenta, wedding cookies. I ask myself what he could possibly tell me that I don't already know: It feels like being terraformed; it feels like want has made a continent of my body, an empty bay, a desert. I dream of him telling me to be bold, telling me to use all those useless pretty sounds, or maybe to cut them to their bones, to the winter trees of words, and say what I have never been able to say, even to him, even when he was a hero, even when I still worshipped. Sometimes it would well up inside me, all this love, suddenly as a Euphrates flood, and the tender trembling reed of me would try to tell him—and always it came to nothing. Once, in kindergarten, I made a ballerina's twirling leap to hug my teacher and chipped her front tooth. I stared at it the rest of the year, the whistling entrance to a cave mankind had never seen inside before, which is to say: there is no unruining.

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I imagined the life inside that mouth, the cave fish blind and bioluminescent, the crystals soft as cotton candy all dead and unmade in a single jagged crack, one pirouette. Now I hold that terrible dancer down by her little wrists, by her ribboned slippers, and keep her close inside. It's like that. Or maybe it is that, maybe this is less simile than one-to-one correspondence. I want to ask my father how it is that thoughts hold someone hostage not the thinker, but the object. Because I worry I have him tied up at the teacher's desk. I worry that the dunes are sighing and sifting for rain and the sand is white as incisors and she is running and turning and oh God she's going to jump.

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ARIEN REED Gender Keeps Me Awake at Night

What body shame taught her to hate, she taught herself to love through the magic of a new story. We have the power to change the narrative of body shame in our lives. […] We are the authors of our own lives. — SONYA RENEE TAYLOR The Body is Not an Apology: The Power of Radical Self-Love

Because I like to live in lies, I undress beside other men at the gym as though no one has ever raped me. David Shields said art is the lie that tells the truth but I like the way truth will slip into lies so it can become art too. I wear flip flops in the showers as though my feet are not dainty or my ankles streaked razor-white. I bruise my breasts into a binder almost every day and‖I’m‖still‖not‖sure‖if‖I‖truly,‖truly‖want‖them mastectomied away. There is an art to wearing your truth with the right clothes, moves, incisions, needles, and love. Truth‖is‖I‖can’t‖remember‖every‖time‖I’ve‖been‖assaulted any‖more‖than‖what‖I’ve‖been‖having‖for‖breakfast‖lately. Maybe‖I‖shouldn’t‖be‖changing‖ next to other men. Sometimes I like to wear a dress, unbind my chest, and wear a pink face mask as though I really am the woman we mistook me for. I’m‖not‖sure‖if‖I‖want‖to‖remember‖how‖knotted‖red‖lines‖ came to be nestled within the folds of my labia. Gender‖is‖an‖art‖I‖wear‖and‖I‖don’t‖understand how no one else appreciates the brushstrokes of this performance.

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I salivate so sharply for respect, I want to feign a mortal wound at the bruising of my name or pronouns even though it hurts. I‖shouldn’t‖have‖to‖use‖a‖female‖restroom,‖ protected by a pink mask, so I can find a stall to pee. I sometimes wonder if oral rape also counts as‖rape,‖or‖if‖I’m‖being‖a‖drama‖king. Every time I touch a canvas, I feel a piece of what he did to me losing the dirt of its colors. I deserve to change or pee beside other men and women and people. Truth is life is better or worse depending on which direction you bend the truth of your life story. I resent public private spaces for forcing me into a gender to‖which‖I’ll‖never‖know‖how‖much‖I still belong. I‖have‖a‖penis‖now,‖kind‖of,‖but‖it‖doesn’t‖pee‖ because‖I‖don’t‖want‖the‖meta‖or‖phallo‖surgeries. Maybe humans should never have been segregated by gender any more than race, ability, age, size, or sexuality. In a way I think oral rape is worse; I’ll‖never‖forget‖the‖taste‖of‖his‖weekly‖mistakes. Art drains something from me too, a leech pulling the bad spirits from my chewing teeth. In a restroom of only stalls no one can see anyone anyway unless they break the law. Those willing to break laws for gratification will do so no matter how human beings‖are‖segregated,‖and‖they’ve‖never‖worn‖a‖dress‖ to do it.

continued

155

My‖double‖mastectomy‖is‖next‖week,‖I’ve‖been‖waiting‖a‖year‖ and‖I’m‖still‖relabeling‖my‖gender identity. Sometimes I think gender is the truth that tells art how to lie. I want to scream the breasts right off my chest and‖I’ve‖already‖bought‖a‖breastplate‖of‖fake‖tits‖ to replace them. Sometimes I think the worst part was that I never felt much pain in my body, that I remember. The‖only‖gender‖I’ve‖ever‖seen‖art‖wear‖is‖lies that identify as truths and with the right tale, its dysphoria can be beautiful too. The last time I was raped, I was fifteen and I hate that it was the best orgasm of my life. I let other people make excuses and I accept them completely so‖why‖can’t‖I‖do‖the‖same‖for‖me?

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NNATIVE PPOETS

JIM MORENO SPECIAL SECTION EDITOR

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TANAYA WINDER Teach Me How to Pray

My brother wants to learn to smudge. Says‖he’s‖spent‖too‖many‖years‖twiddling‖thumbs. Grandmother used to do this between hymns, her right sun rotating around her left moon, the‖universe‖resting‖in‖grandmother’s‖folded‖hands. Sometimes she would switch directions and planets would reverse their orbit. Time shifted. To my brother coughing black rivers, the dry heave of grief kneeling in church, begging for‖forgiveness‖or‖another‖demon.‖He’s‖waiting for someone to ride shotgun to the corner store, where his friends gather like a congregation waiting to hear more stories. Like me, grandmother’s‖favorite‖part‖of‖church‖was‖singing. She‖doesn’t‖like‖to‖remember‖what‖happened‖back‖then when you prayed in your own language, how to this day scriptures still sting as the words skip from throat to tongue. But she teaches us lost prayers like a song you hum so as not to forget, you sing to remember never hold your breath. The medicine will come out in rivers, flooding everything we remember.

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MICHAEL TURNER When Others Suffer, Be with Them when the wind blurs through the tall grass grandfather rocks open their eyes as I stumble over them in the background of this experience those rocks directly speak to me remind me of my responsibility as water protector my gifting grows wild and waters the grass's roots helping me become happy among my friends inside the mighty hoop we sit around the fire of far – away I listen – to allow their experience to feel the presence within them as they feel mine in the dialect of compassion this becomes a calm certainty our words make it clear we have no secrets whatever hurt exists dissolves into the sky

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WILLOW ROBINSON San Pasqual Reservation

I’m Strong and Unstable

I am strong and unstable I wonder why I think the way I do I hear my thoughts loud and clear I see only pain in my past I want to see the good I am strong and unstable

I pretend I'm not tired I feel angry and anxious I worry for the future I cry when I need to cry I am strong and unstable

I understand I can change my thoughts I say I'm fine I dream I will be able to change my thoughts of the past I try my best to to change my thoughts I hope I can change my thoughts I am strong and unstable

160

JANESSA PARADA Rincon Reservation

Why don’t you hear me?

I am Native, why‖don’t‖you hear me? I am Native, I stand here waiting for someone to look. . . I am Native, why‖don’t‖you‖see‖me‖? I am Native, I stand here waiting for someone to listen. . . I am Native, why‖don’t‖you‖hear‖me? I am Native. I sit in silence waiting for a sound, a movement. . . I am Native, Shadow is what I am called. I am Native, I sit here wishing, praying, screaming for help Yet nothing! I am Native, nobody but the ones who walked by. . . I am Native, Listen! What do you hear? Silence, for my cry for help has died. . . Why‖don’t‖you‖hear‖me? I am a Native Woman.

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CONNER CASH Rincon Reservation

Humorous, Loyal, Tall, Brother

California Quarantine Pandemic Times Enjoys Baseball, Donuts, Beach Feels Happy, Hot, Tired Needs People, Good Food, Music Fears Losing Family, Failing, War Siblings, Pig, Money Confident

DARRELL PERALTA Pala Reservation

Dancing with the Birds

The strong voices of Native men The beautiful Native women dancing to the beat of my gourd The sound of beads in my gourd make me joyful As the voices grow louder, I bird dance harder

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TANAYA WINDER When the Stars Fall From the Sky

Say we begin in surrender spiraling through loss still sleeping in our bones. I once heard a creation story about coyote falling from the blanket of the sky, unable to keep pace, keep time. Why did we grow up learning to wish on anything that falls? Say it is possible to invite our demons to dinner. Ask if they prefer to pray before or after. We eat. We feast, pull up a seat next to our wounds, listen to them fight over who came first as if a rupture chooses how it wants to break as if a scar decides how it wants to come undone. At the dinner table, your belly swells with rage as if to say healing is pain demanding a seat at the table. As if to remind you – you cannot forgive your ghosts until after you stop grieving them. Tell‖me‖it’s‖possible‖to‖drink‖in‖constellations, savoring each star – east to west. Tell me when the stars fall from the sky we’ll‖still‖be‖able‖to‖find‖our‖way‖back‖home.

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TARAH PARADA Barona Reservation

Smart, Funny, Beautiful, Kind

21st Century Native American Enjoys Shopping, Sports, Friends Feels loved, Confused, Tired Needs Food, Good Vibes, Explanations Fears Spiders, Snakes, Clowns Native. . . Native. . . Native! Boo Boo

164

MARRIANNE DIAZ Agua Caliente Reservation

Preposition Poem

Across from me stands a very beautiful queen Next to her side stands her handsome king Between the king and queen stands their son the all mighty knight Around her is a very golden and great big castle

By the golden castle is the haunted forest Inside of there stands an evil demon Outside her window she stares at the demon in the haunted forest Below she sees something she never wanted to see, the demon in the wood, is her darker side

Through the darkness she sees light and love Towards her, moves the darkness, she consumes it so she can be happy

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WILLIAM DIAZ Agua Caliente Reservation

Raymond Belardes

Tall, broad, strong, loyal California Native American enjoys Bird singing, family, gatherings feels sacred, proud, accomplished needs wife, kids, creator fears loss, failure, disappointment Father, husband, brother Uncle Box

ESPERANZA ORTEGA Torres Martinez Reservation

My Gift from Above

You were sent down to me in my greatest time of need a time I felt I could no longer go on I asked God to send me a blessing from the heavens up above and he sent me a precious baby boy to love.

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WILLIAM DIAZ Agua Caliente Reservation

Sonnet 3

The sound of my drum you can feel so deep. I sit here and sing along with the beat. The hill I climb with my brothers is steep. To the Arbor we travel to the heat.

Next to the fire we stand with feet bare. In skirts next to singers the women hop. Crawling in the lodge breathing some hot air. Sweat dripping from my brow like a raindrop.

Emerging from sweat we go to the drum. Calling the bears we pray to Creator. Sitting on the drum singing songs, we hum. The bass of the drum is phenomenal.

At closing headed back to the sweat lodge.

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KIM SHUCK The Weather is Smoke

What can you say about this smoke filled sky? The sighing of the trees that crave a fire? Our own monkey bodies Wanting safety surrounded by forest And‖it’s‖fire season Fire season again Guardian of the underworld Shaken Sits with me on my stairs I brush her fur The stories are deep Threaded with smoke Smoke flowing north The secret trails Marked with shards of obsidian Mirrorlets Ringing Vibrating With wildfire

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PPOEMS FROM JJUVENILE HHALL

JIM MORENO SPECIAL SECTION EDITOR

169

Trevion A. Freedom

Without Freedom, what is Life? A lot of people would not be who they are today. . . Freedom was inspired by George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, President John Kennedy, and Dr. Martin Luther King. . . Freedom is the most important in life. . . ‚Don’t‖Take‖Advantage.‛

Statistic

People‖might‖think‖I’m‖just‖a‖criminal‖and‖a‖statistic,‖ someone who gets in trouble. . . It has to be like this it’s‖all‖about perceptions. . . I just wish one day, everyone could and should look deeper.

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Miguel C. I Should’ve

I‖should’ve stayed in school lnstead of ditching to be cool. I‖should’ve‖said‖no‖to drugs instead of hurting the ones I love. I should’ve‖been‖looking‖for‖a job instead of looking for places to rob. I‖should’ve‖been‖at home instead of roaming the streets.

Dominick B. Somebody Can Die

When people shoot bullets fly. People can get hit. Somebody can die. It’s‖hard‖to believe they go six feet deep but end up in the sky.

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E.Z Why Me

Why me suffer this way why me why. Why is my brother in prison why him why it couldn't be someone else why my family is suffering

My Mind

My mind is not connecting with my heart. My heart is telling me am so angry and confused. But my mind is telling me that am going to get out.

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Shawnteia. J. when i see you again when i see you again, my love i promise to hold you and never let you go when i see you again i promise to give you a thousand kisses to make up the time we were separated when i see you again i'm going to hug for so long that we might lose track of time when i see you again i'm going to lose myself in your beautiful brown eyes, and reminisce all the joyful times we spent together, i'll reminisce the first time we exchanged i love yous to each other like it was yesterday when‖i‖see‖you‖again‖i‖promise‖i’ll‖change‖for‖the‖better, for only GOD knows when were not together we lose track of time when i see you again i promise to love you 'til the end of all time love monkey butt

173

Jasa My Aunt Kim

Life Energy Unconditional love Support She gives it all Let me love you Let me hold you Are you okay You can do it Your amazing You have your own story No matter what happened you're you Be proud of yourself This is temporary I got you I'm always here for you She never fails Never faults Beautiful Strong Woman Daughter Sister Mother Aunt Never gives up "You can't have any children" My cousins are living though Happily Ignored for 10+ years He never deserved you You know this Hard working Fast paced Never giving up

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You are strong I love you You are important I don't know what I would do without you Only you Strong woman

175

Shawnteia J. Why

Why do people call african americans blacks or negroes? Why do people who lack knowledge call hispanics mexicans? But yet they love our cultural food? Why does it hurt so much to be called these names? Are the names they call us true? Why do we act differently around caucasian people? Why do we feel threatened? Didn't we all come from God. . . I close my eyes and feel warm tears flood my eyes. I cry because I know what they call us is not true but very hurtful. I am angry I am angry because people know so little about us but have so many negative things to say about our culture. I ask why? I ask why because WE want an answer. I ask why because WE want to put an end to all stereotypes. I ask why because I want to understand why can't WE be treated fairly without the stereotypes Why? Why? Why?

176

Jessica P. If you only knew me

If only you knew me you would know my wonderful family I chose them and they chose me I‖couldn’t‖have‖chosen‖better If only you knew me you would know about the time me and my sister spend in the kitchen You would know about how I got my heart broke by‖a‖couple‖guys‖that‖didn’t‖treat‖me‖right But where was my mom and my sisters right next to me I don't really care much for my bio family But I had three beautiful boxers They laid next to me through all the pain If you only knew me

177

Jazmyn R. I am not a love poet

Though I want to touch every part of you my hands gliding down those curves of yours while I hold you in our bed feeling your heart race under my lips as I kiss that smooth spot between your chin and shoulder I am not a love poet though every time I see you my heart skips like two beats when your eyes meet mine I just know you're seeing me never through me Your body pressing against mine we fit together like lost puzzle pieces I am not a love poet Even while you're not sleeping next to me you can still be found in my dreams When you're elsewhere I swear I lose sleep without your body against me I am not a love poet Even your attitude does bad things to me making me want to throw you over my shoulder just to show you exactly what you can do with your smart self I am not a love poet If I was I have to tell people about how beautiful you are snug in a black dress relaxed in sweats maybe even nude lying in our bed They may fall in love with you like young girls fall for Mr. Darcy I am not a love poet Assuming I could tell people how we don't even make it past the door on date nights Somehow we end up under a cover near the fireplace breathing passion into each other

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Randoms would stare mouths wide in shock Friends would look upon us pride shining openly on their faces I am not a love poet While I'm away I can only think about how beautiful you are as the firelight paints pictures on your skin using the shadows to trick the eyes relaying images of comfort and softness I am not a love poet If I was I'd have to talk about how much I love you But I am not a love poet

Diego R. Be Real with Me

I’d‖rather‖you‖tell‖me‖you‖don’t‖want‖to talk instead of giving only a fraction of yourself. I’m‖not‖trying‖to‖be a façade or a front. I apologize if my persistence is too much or if you feel pressure to be nice, or to talk, believe me.

179

Beatriz C. Shattered Glass

I’m‖shattered‖glass Shatter me, me A moment in pieces Take a shard of me Look deeply inside for remnants of how we used to be Part the water slide in a ripple Find yourself in time Find me Parallel you, parallel me We were this close to the water my hair in my eyes and the sun high above us when you told me it was done Since then I´ve been running Oh you make me run to get back to the moment when you told me I´m the one a life beyond or behind to find you If only that could be Only this course for me only this life I am with you every step even though you can't see me

180

Savannah H. Love

Love is the driving force Behind all that was all that is all that will ever be It is only when we love that we truly will be free Love upon a hummingbird's nest or deep in lovers' heavy breaths Love in darkness Love in light Love in hiding or in plain sight There's love in pleasure and some in pain some in sunshine and in rain Love in mother's newborn kiss and love in nature's eternal bliss and if you feel that you are alone think of stars loving from their homes shining down to you and me sharing short eternity When you see the truth in love you will never be alone

181

S. J. Clouds

Clouds I see when I close my eyes I dream I see an angel standing next to me I hear her beautiful voice sing She wakes out of my dreams I peer toward my window to see nothing but the blue sky and beautiful fluffy clouds staring down at me I search my room for clues Oh where did my darling angel disappear to I need her here with me to ease the pain I wish once more to hear her beautiful voice sing I slip away from the pain and go back to my sweet dreams

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Ahn T. If You Knew

If you‖really‖knew‖me‖you’d‖know‖I'm not a criminal I end up here from a mistake of me not knowing If I knew I’d‖never‖be‖sitting‖in‖here‖today If‖you‖really‖knew‖me‖you’d‖know‖I'm‖very‖kind-hearted I try my best in things I do to make people happy I know my story and I know what happened even though‖it’s‖hard‖for‖me‖to‖get‖through‖some‖days But I know my family needs me and misses me I try to get as much help as I can get in here to get through my days so I can be back with my family because I know‖they’re‖counting‖everyday and waiting for me at home

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Johnny N. Mama saying I'm blessed

but I feel like I'm cursed praying for the best but still expecting the worst staring at these four walls got me feeling stressed praying when I wake & I pray before I rest

Javier S. Todos Somos Iguales Nada Más que Otros We Are All the Same Nothing More than Others

Por su color pero no tiene nada que ver Because your color has nothing to do with it porque todos somos iguales por dentro because we are all the same inside

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Eric G. Not My Motion

If I don't watch what I'm thinking my mind will break from my emotions however strong my head is and it won't affect my motion

Traducción por/Translation by Noe T.

Si no cuido lo que pienso mi mente romperá mis emociones sin embargo fuerte es mi cabeza y no afecta a mis movimientos

Daniel H. love is not abuse

but it is if it's misused love is not abuse the fake love is for fools love is not abuse

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Gerrad H. Since a Young Teen I've Been Living a Crazy Life

Since young teen, I've been in and out of a cell in a four-corner room feeling like I'm stuck in a box Can't do nothing because it's the life that I chose Just another day waking up in the Hall to probation telling me to sweep the floor Same thing, different day

Johnny N.

Innocent but Proven Guilty

Every action begins with a struggle because life isn't easy or just given to you My mind sometimes tells me I can overcome everything I imagine such as challenges If I don't watch what I'm thinking I can get overwhelmed or frustrated because of all the racist things happening in 2020 such as being innocent, but still proven guilty

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Adrian A.

In my mind, there is a boy who exists in chains inside a cold dark room in pain of solitude

Malik Trouble Reading

I have trouble reading. When I was born something happened. Part of my lungs collapsed and my brain starved for air. I had trouble doing things. I excel in sports, but I still can't read, I still can't read. One day I was playing a travel baseball game and I was hit in the back of my leg. That night my mom took me to the hospital. We found out I had cancer, but I still can't read, I still can't read, I still can't read.

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Diego R. Cloud to Cloud

My life is like a dream imagining myself floating in the sky hopping cloud to cloud. When I fall I'm going to wake up in my bed realizing it was just a dream.

Let Me Speak Creativity

Let me speak creativity. You're the virtue to my uncontrolled emotion. Exposed to your love position, your characteristic and behavior say it all, I don't mind if you are short or tall, your presence enlightens my day. You're my Friday on a Monday.

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Donald R. Broken People Cause Broken Streets

In my streets I see broken people broken people who beg for what they want broken people who gamble for what they want broken people who steal for what they want broken people who sell drugs to children to get what they want broken‖people‖who‖can’t‖think‖correctly‖ because of the things they wanted and most importantly, broken people who‖are‖afraid‖to‖succeed‖so‖they‖don’t‖have‖to‖beg,‖ gamble, steal, or sell drugs to children to get what they want. The broken people in my streets are‖so‖convinced‖that‖they‖can’t‖live‖without‖ any of the broken ways to get what they want. It is as if everyone in my streets has been brainwashed and left with only broken mindsets and empty souls. It is as if all the knowledge in these people has been wiped away by a nuclear wave It is as if everyone in my streets has developed Alzheimer's disease and‖can’t‖remember‖what‖they‖wanted‖to‖be‖in‖life‖ and what real success is. It is as if everyone in my streets had turned into zombies. This whole time I have been seeing zombies in my streets who were once people, but‖couldn’t‖escape‖ these toxic streets in time. My‖streets‖aren’t‖broken. It is the people in them that cause my streets to be broken. Broken people cause broken streets.

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Roberto O. Come On In

It's loud inside my head Sometimes I think I'm not there alone They're there with me They scream and they yell They beg for me not to tell I know I'm not crazy I see it when I look in their eyes They tell me one thing but it's not the truth They say I should keep to myself They told me to keep my mouth shut: ‚They‖don't‖want‖to‖know‖what‖you‖do.‛ It's not easy to live inside my head It's crazy, it's bonkers, it's mad It's hard to remember what I once had, hard to remember what it was like when I was younger and I had a life Now all I know is a dark room, a place of darkness, an empty void It's my home, it's my poison, it's my doom I'm lost inside I'm torn within I'm screaming, I'm yelling It's all for him, the boy I once was, foolish, now insecure I'm telling a story I'm letting you in the place of darkness, the scary mist I'm ready now Come on in

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Sebastian H. Mindness

Sometimes we are tired of being who we are I had to try a lot of times to change who I am but it is something that is not in my hands My body hurts and my mind is tired but I just keep forward leaving the pain on the side never looking back

Alexandra P. Words in the Wind

Do you hear her? Listen closely as she sings. Do you hear the pain in her voice? Listen as her words flow, hear her closely: she's crying for help. Don't let her words be blown away.

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he Juvenile Court and Community Schools system requires the nondisclosure of the identities of those who participated in the T SDPA workshops, at various detention facilities in 2020.

Poets & Writers provided a generous grant to make possible the workshops, conducted by Zoom this year due to the COVID-19 pandemic.

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LOVERNE BROWN & TERRY HERTZLER

Introduction by

BRANDON CESMAT Regional Editor, San Diego Poetry Annual

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his‖year’s‖publication‖of‖Garment for a Long Journey: The Collected Poems of LoVerne Brown brings‖together‖Brown’s‖ T books and previously unpublished poems. As the founder‖ of‖ The‖ Ocean‖ Beach‖ Poets’‖ Circle,‖ LoVerne‖ Brown‖ (1912-2000) was a literary matriarch of San Diego who elevated writers and continues to inspire many of us. Brown worked for the City of San Diego during the day and wrote poems after hours in Ocean Beach, the town she dedicated herself to. Among the many who attended The Ocean Beach Poetry Circle were Steve Kowit, Terry Hertzler, Jesus Papoleto Melendez, George Varga (who read only music essays) and hosts Franklin & Roz Strauss. When Steve Kowit published the anthology The Maverick Poets, the seminal anthology included a poem by Brown titled The Meeting of the Mavericks. Brown’s‖ poem set the scene for an anthology that included a diverse group like Dorianne Laux, Ed Field or Billy Collins who were decidedly outside the two big rivers of academic poetry that flowed through SDSU and UCSD in the 1980s. Later, when Collins developed Poetry 180 for The Library of Congress, his editorial‖ taste‖ resembled‖ Kowit’s‖ mavericks (Kowit also included Meeting of the Mavericks in In the Palm of Your Hand; clearly, the poem was among his favorites.). Brown was featured at the first Border Voices Poetry Festival in Balboa Park, and subsequently began a scholarship for high-school poets in the program. Brown herself had received a scholarship to U.C. Berkeley, but had to drop out of school after The Stock Market Crash of 1929. U.C. Berkeley hired her as an administrative assistant to the chair of the political science department, where she worked for three years, but Brown ended up supporting her mother, father and siblings, who moved to Berkeley, rather than graduating. Brown‖ lived‖ a‖ writer’s‖ life.‖ She‖ worked‖ as‖ a‖ journalist‖ in‖ Alaska, ghost wrote several books for others and was famous at San Diego City Hall for teaching new hires how to write reports for the mayor and council. In appreciation of her writing skills, the City of San Diego gave her The Winnower

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Award for‖ Brown’s‖ ‚ability‖ to‖ separate the wheat from the chaff.‛‖Her‖incisive‖style‖‖ as well as her wit can be seen in such anthologized poems as A Very Wet Leavetaking. She co-founded The Ocean Beach Community School, where she taught a poetry workshop that spun-off The Ocean Beach Poets’‖Circle,‖which‖inspired‖others,‖including‖Terry‖ Hertzler, who published Two Dog Lovers Sharing a Bus Seat as a broadside and The Rapist Child as a chapbook (Caernarvon Press: 1995). Besides publishing many Southern California poets & writers such as Brown, Kowit, Lori Davis and Jackleen Holton, Terry Hertzler wrote two significant books: The Way of the Snake: Writings from the war in Vietnam (1985) and Second Skin (2003). The Way of the Snake provided many of the poems for the War section of Second Skin, which placed combat in the wider perspective of expectations of a boy and later a husband. Hertzler toured by motorcycle to his hometown of Mansfield, Ohio to publicize readings of Second Skin. Hertzler also served as editor of The No-Street Poets’ Voice in the 1980s and early 1990s as well as a contributor to San Diego Readers & Writers Magazine. While dealing with congestive heart failure and a- fibrillation, he committed suicide in Las Cruces, New Mexico in 2018. Hertzler's poem praising Brown, Perennial was found in his storage locker.

— BRANDON CESMAT

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LOVERNE BROWN Two Dog Lovers Sharing a Bus Seat

Mind‖if‖I‖sit‖here,‖ma’am? Heard what you said about liking the sign on the bus that galloping greyhound. I’m‖a‖dog‖lover,‖too, and, lady, I swear to glory there’s‖nothing‖prettier than a greyhound running! I have a kennel of them in Tijuana, race them each season, make a good living off them. . .

Training? Do it myself. The thing is to teach them to trust you; start‖when‖they’re‖puppies, making‖them‖think‖you’re‖god;‖ then‖they’ll‖do‖anything.‖.‖. Lord, how I love those critters!

One thing about them, they’re‖only‖good‖for‖four‖seasons; by‖the‖time‖they’re‖five, they’re‖too slow and too wheezy to win. . .

Retire them? Lady, do you see any signs out there saying, Home for Retired Greyhounds? In Mexico even people don’t‖have‖it‖that‖lucky.‖.‖.

Well, if you got to know, I shoot them and sell them for cat food. I’m‖a‖dog‖lover,‖like‖I‖told‖you, but‖I’m‖not‖sentimental!

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TERRY HERTZLER Perennial for LoVerne Brown

They’re‖invisible,‖these‖fine‖roots, stronger than words, even the fine words she leaves behind, these radicles of infinite flexibility and reach, delicate as baby hair yet taproot tenacious the invisible bonds she created, bestowing light and sustenance still, passed from old growth to new growth, from Alaskan ice to pier at O.B., across continents and oceans, grown immense in time although the tree is now gone, look around you, a forest remains.

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POEMS 2

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MARIA MAZZIOTTI GILLAN East Side High School, Paterson, NJ

When I think of high school, that place where I tried too hard to fit in but never did, that place where I only made two new friends in the four years I was there, that place‖jammed‖full‖of‖so‖many‖other‖people‖I‖didn’t‖know, the halls full of rushing students in bobby socks, the steel lockers that lined the halls, I remember the taste of fear mingled with loneliness, the way I was sure everyone else knew a secret I could never learn, that crowded and noisy cafeteria where my neighbor, Big Joey, handed me a romance novel called India Allen, that place where Mr. Weiss, my English teacher, treated me as though I were special. I was hungry for the courage he handed me, quiet, skinny, and awkward in my gray wool skirt and saddle shoes, my head always bent, my shoulders hunched. Now years later, when I give a poetry reading in New York City, Mr. Weiss often attends and sits near the front. When I see him, I feel as though I grow taller, surer. How grateful I am to see him there, smiling at me and nodding.

One time after reading my poems in Chicago, a‖man‖approached‖me.‖‚Hi,‛‖he‖said,‖‚I’m‖Joey.‖ Remember‖me?‛ He and his wife gave me a personal tour of Chicago, took me out to eat. We had lunch at a diner where the waitresses danced on the counters and Joey had two cheeseburgers and French fries, though he had just had open heart surgery.

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Joey‖wasn’t‖that‖healthy. He had been married three times and his wife was years younger than he. She adored him. Joey liked to have a good time, wasn’t‖good‖at‖doling‖out‖pleasures‖one‖at‖a‖time.

Last year, my brother called up to say Joey had died, Joey, this remnant of my childhood, who shoved a book in my hands in the Eastside High School cafeteria because he loved me.

GREGORY LONGENECKER

outliving even Mom sibling rivalry

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JANET FOSTER ESL Prayer

I see a fabric of many fine threads woven world images: xinling Dragon fire forging Afghan swords, cooled by Somalia blue, warmed and held by Mexican pride blended into one material, one flag flown by the desert winds across painful memories into cavernous forgotten spaces out of damp caves and into the sun through many mountains and hillsides left behind like Tibetan flags they flutter carrying the blessings of our intentions of our one human existence one heart, they are a supplication unspoken

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yet heard by many a prayer already answered as we greet each other every morning in our classroom

D’ELLEN

Stormy Monday Blues dull the MRI hammer nails in my coffin

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LESLIE FERGUSON Sky Bridge

After the hysterectomy, I taught myself to walk again hunched over my scars, scanning asphalt for hazard. I came to a bridge, stood on its belly to hear what it had to say. Though I would leave no biological legacy, I‖was‖not‖empty,‖it‖cried.‖I’ve‖been‖so‖ open in my life, maybe too much. Opened, it echoed. Mysterious is not the most important thing a girl can be in this world, it whispered. Not mother, daughter, lover.

Someone slid‖on‖my‖heart’s‖loose‖terrain‖‖ many someones or had I pushed them when I needed my hand held as I crossed over the shadows.

I can still be cruel & it is acceptable to lower them into trash & graffiti, break them on these parched river rocks, show them pain to make them feel mine, then build them up with tender hands.

I can be cut hard & heal soft & say, Here, let me guide you & See how you had to suffer so you could learn to appreciate me.

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& when you say you understand, I’ll‖tell‖you‖to‖look‖up‖at‖the‖flicker‖&‖flash; & when you do, you will see I alone am magic as I open my palms to purple and persimmon layered twilight; & your worshipping eyes will sparkle under smoky clouds; & when day becomes dusk, the sky will be ours. You will see what I see a dream for us flown so full of birds their wings will flutter in our mouths.

BONA M. SANTOS

lady justice the earth rattles in her wake

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DICK EIDEN Landing Patterns

We watch them descend toward a small airport grown from hobbyists hotshots and crop dusters for the groves that lined the valleys like green carpet spotted with orange after World War II. The groves are long gone and small jets now bring executives from Japan and Silicone Valley to business parks in gleaming hi-tech buildings soon to be left behind in the onward rush of cause and effect.

The first hotshots and barnstormers were pilots in World War I and flew loop-de-loops for picnicking families in fields out of town on Sundays, stood in soup lines and marched to‖D.C.‖for‖food‖in‖‘32.‖No‖work for warriors after the war, they camped on the National Mall as generations have, looking for someplace to land in America.

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MARY DE LA FUENTE When Your Identity is the World

Indian tribes, labor camps, wars, imagination, bedtime stories: who am I when all these images reside in mind?

I held a hammer I rocked the boat I dug holes in Antarctica in mermaid lairs

I spun, topless, on checkered ceilings, exploring Labyrinth oubliettes.

I soaked in the crevice of a blood-red moon, eclipse season, with vampire fangs.

Throngs of hippies, chanting around fires, on The Mayflower.

I was a Muckraker, at the bottom of the ninth, in the trenches of Vietnam.

There is no time.

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CATHERYNNE CRUZ-SCHECKNER

Staring at this blank page I wonder if I can fill it. What if this remains as blank as‖an‖amnesiac’s‖mind and as devoid of merit as a lying, cheating man. What then? Should I look at another blank page again? Could I ever look at another blank page again?

They‖say‖that‖in‖a‖person’s‖face one may find a discernable trace of the life a person leads like a chapter from a book one reads.

Wonder what this face of mine tells of how I spend my time.

May masks cover my face a different one for a different case. Sometimes I wear just one sometimes more and just for fun one I take off pretending to show my face but truth is, another mask is in its place.

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KEN BUHR Sports Section

I wondered as I read if you watched this game, your favorite NBA team. ‚I’ll give you a call‛ was my thought.

That sports headline with my reaction probably the only part of today’s news I’ll remember the part I am attempting to write about, this difficult to translate, exceedingly rough translation of the heart’s refrain.

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LAURA BOSS Calls

Hoping

I have phoned all the local and New York hospitals during this corona pandemic No record of my missing son I have called the New York City synagogues where my son told me he was renting a room from their housing services A rabbi gets back to me He has no remembrance of my son but is very kind and tells me to send him a photo He promises to send the photo to other rabbis and social services he knows at other Manhattan synagogues I keep calling different synagogues that my son might have rented a room from The executive director of another synagogue writes back that she doesn’t recognize‖my‖son’s‖photo Another states, ‚You are going through the worst nightmare any‖parent‖can‖have‛ Another rabbi hopes my son is found and well I am so moved and comforted by the kindness of all these rabbis, executive directors, social workers, cantors It‖makes‖me‖almost‖regret‖I’m an atheist

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On My Birthday

While I am hoping my missing son will call me his unclaimed body is being moved from a tiny hospital to a funeral home for‖burial‖in‖a‖pauper’s‖grave And though we have had his name in a missing person‘s report and a national data base, apparently no one checked though it would have been so easy to do so My son lay in this hospital for a week before he died Alone

If someone had notified us, we would have moved him to a better hospital or at least brought a specialist in If someone had only tracked the rental car he was driving, they could have identified him immediately but the police left the car in the hotel parking lot for four-and-a-half months before the hotel asked when they were going to get it out of the parking lot If only, if only So many if-onlys But I keep thinking maybe if only. . . my son would not have died

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JAN BEATTY Those Night Roads, Wyoming

Those night roads that span long in the dark through the foothills with only the tail lights of a far-off car to lead you for light

That wild loneliness and hill freedom and in the long distance another road with blue light behind it

Is it the sky haze from a half-gone town against the black dark?

Cutting the landscape in two those night roads

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R.J. BLACK So Easy

So easy to see Spirit in tendrils; nails on a newborn; your deepest thoughts in somebody else’s words;

Much harder impossible, maybe, for you and me that quiet voice within, hardly heard no matter how persistent;

Yet, always once again in blazing clouds of a vermilion sunset; beside a grave; alone in church; in bed at night; but then, perhaps, too late.

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SALLY SANDLER Lesson from a Giant Swallowtail

I've been expecting him since his mother scattered hurried shadows over the orange tree two weeks ago. Still, when it comes, his reveal is sudden as the lightning bolts on his velvet wings, the morning mist nearly concealing his midnight black, his Fred Astaire elegance.

But this is 2020, a year that staggers to the end holding its head in its hands, and even his butterfly perfection is imperfect, his right wing torn at the tip — a chink in the order of things, a blink in the sweet alignment of stars and a moon and a master plan.

The air picks him up and discards him like a scrap of paper turned end over end to skid across the street. Another breeze comes, another, and another — until he shrugs and lifts and disappears dancing over the tops of trees, bent on procreation. And‖it‖looks‖like‖he’ll‖make‖it,

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intent on continuation despite a world of wounds and scars. As if to say Fine‖then,‖I’m‖ready‖for‖this, I’ll‖take‖it.

LORRAINE A. PADDEN

ashes of roses mingled with hers because pink was her color

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JIM MORENO huellas in la arena (footprints in the sand) for enrique morones & the border angels

We carry the water down we carry the water down into the desert where crossers are cotton-mouth dying 700 buried not too far from here we carry the water down llevamos el agua abajo to the floor of the canyon carpeted with sand

We carry hope down we carry hope down to the thirsty dying in the burning desert sun llevamos esperanza abajo we carry compassion down we carry inoculation for hate racist hate that sliced full life water bottles bigoted blades draining liquid life into the parched desert sand.

We replace the empty with the full, we replace the empty with the full reponemos el vacio con el lleno we replace senseless dying with sane living we transform the senseless with the sage change indifference toward suffering to liquid living reverse hot hate consternation with cool water of life

Singing Indian songs recalling simpler times when sand was not symbol of desperate human rivers when human beings were not for sale when a wind called justice danced to one land sans borders to border angels' smiles.

But we are symbols too we are symbols too somos simbolos tambien we are reminders that in a sea of hatred insanity in an ocean of freedom's thieves we embrace strong raza love

Over glacier carried stones over cactus scurrying critters among a dozen hundred rivers of footprints painting sand bringing liquid peace among briers and burrs among snakes and scorpions beneath a dearth of clouds in the burning desert sky where there's no no life-giving soothing shade

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As always a great reprieve was spoken by the elder the ancient admonition that was handed down from generation to generation that we are all spokes on the same wheel connected in the center

And the 700 buried not too far from here los sietecientos enterrado cerca de aqui executed by state violent paper writ, signed by the appointed brutal bigot might have left this river of injustice to remind us that these desert deaths are unjust this desert dying is as unamerican as sweat shop slave masters plundering broken lives from impunity from let them breathe cake arrogance

So we carry the water down llevamos el agua abajo dousing hatred's fire of those who have never been hungry those who have never been thirsty those who hold the gold making racist rules bloody vigilantes breaking hearts breaking lives descendants of immigrants crucifying immigrants pale writers of so many unnecessary epitaphs

But we are writers too somos escritores tambien somos escritores and there are more of us than there are of them so for this panegyric we all carry the water down entonces llevamos todas el agua abajo until there are no more footprints in the sand

All of us carry the water down through the prickly cactus in the suffocating heat we all carry the water down to raise the hopes of dehydrated desert walkers we carry the water to the workers the women the children the families singing songs of justice singing songs of peace singing Indian songs of connection to all my relations until one glorious day there are no more desert deaths see that beautiful day when there are no more no more no more footprints in the sand no mas huellas en la arena

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MICHAEL KLAM Devour Me Homeopathically

I was thinking of rolling my emotions up into neat little balls putting them in pita bread with organic lettuce tomatoes and tahini sauce so that you could devour me homeopathically as if I were the essence of a falafel sandwich and not the flesh and blood that brings out your carnivore and makes you want to tear into me as if I were just another piece of wounded meat.

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JILL G. HALL In the Fast Lane

From‖the‖MGBGT’s‖bucket‖seat‖I‖watch‖Greg‖strut out of the Tijuana liquor store and climb behind the wheel. Stick shift between‖us,‖he‖unscrews‖the‖tequila‖bottle’s‖cap‖and‖offers‖me‖ a‖swig.‖I‖shake‖my‖blonde‖head‖no.‖I’m‖impressed,‖no‖lemon‖or‖ salt in sight, he raises the bottle and gulps golden liquid down, worm and all. He lights a joint and soon the car fills with smoke and steamy heat. No need for me to take a hit, at sixteen,‖I’m‖susceptible‖to‖contact‖highs.‖He‖lays‖the‖roach‖in‖ the ashtray and we make out for a while. Led Zeppelin on the eight-track, he revs the motor, winds the car over muddy roads beside cardboard houses that melt in the rain, back to the border.‖There‖he‖rolls‖down‖the‖window‖and‖replies,‖‚U.S.A.‛‖ The‖bored‖agent‖ peers‖in,‖ignores‖Greg’s‖hand‖on‖ my‖tanned‖ thigh, the smell of weed and waves us through. He pushes hard on the gas pedal. A slick highway greets us. An orange sun floats like a buoy on the Pacific. The sports car speeds up, passes a VW van, a Pinto, a semi. In Chula Vista he yells above the‖ music,‖ ‚Let’s‖ get‖ off.‛‖ My heart races as he crosses over three lanes toward the exit and bashes the rear of a sedan. My eyes close tight and I hunker down as the car spins around and around‖ and‖ I’m‖ sure‖ we’re‖ going‖ to‖ die.‖ I‖ hear‖ the‖ squeal‖ of‖ tires, shrieking metal and my scream. Suddenly the car stops and‖ so‖ does‖ the‖noise.‖Greg‖calls‖ my‖name,‖ but‖ I‖ can’t‖ reply.‖ My voice has disappeared. Car doors slam. A far-off siren wails. Someone touches my neck, lifts me out, sets me on my feet.‖ It’s‖ dark‖ now.‖ A‖ flashlight‖ blinds‖ me‖ and‖ my‖ shivering body is wrapped in a scratchy blanket. Blinking squad cars reveal‖smashed‖vehicles‖on‖the‖freeway’s‖side.‖I‖sit‖beside‖Greg‖ in the tow truck and rock back and forth repeating The Lord’s Prayer as the car, now an aluminum ball of foil, is hoisted up behind‖us.‖The‖driver‖climbs‖ in‖and‖says‖to‖me,‖‚Good‖thing‖ you‖had‖your‖seatbelt‖on‖or‖you’d‖be‖dead.‛‖I‖nod‖my‖head‖not‖ wanting‖ to‖ admit‖ that‖ I‖ hadn’t‖ been‖ wearing‖ it.‖ Greg‖ didn’t‖ think they were cool. 219

CHRIS VANNOY Hello hello

Hello?

Hello! why are you standing so far away? I am trying to talk to you over here! 6 feet I have to stand 6 feet from you now? Is that it? 6 feet is the comfort zone now it used to be 3 then the virus changed it it made us all afraid some died I remember now they said it was there across the seas then it came on airplanes from the east and airplanes from the west traveled on cruise ships and aircraft carriers I remember now 6 feet is Isolation can you see me? can you hear me through this white mask that shows only my eyes but never my smile so my eyes are the only thing I have to smile at you with can you see my smile? hello? why are you standing so far away? hello. . . I am here

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TOMÁS GAYTON Rosarito glad eyes and guitaras serenade at sunset sapphire flecked sea

We down cervezas and margaritas hearts and heads afire as waves rush in like roaring herds stampeding to shore

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LORI WALKINGTON Baby Shower

Your mother cried all morning, Not endlessly In quiet spurts of soft tears Down her cheeks. This was supposed to be one of those sacred times In‖a‖woman’s‖life When she is celebrated with abandon, Exalted to the center, Lifted and held by her loved ones The community. And they are Just without a hug, Squeals she can hear. Smiles of anticipation that she must imagine Or remember from some other time.

Your mom cried the whole morning.

Then the table was dressed in pink, Balloon towers adorned the sides of the garage And there she stood Smiling‖ear‖to‖ear‖in‖her‖‘mommy‖to‖be’‖sash. Cars drove by, Gifts were dropped Congratulations given.

Your abuelas’ tinga was perfect Not too spicy. And‖your‖mother’s‖smile‖has‖yet‖to‖fade. She cried all morning, Then the Village drove through, Brought the celebration with them, Carrying love in their hearts And sunshine that dried her eyes.

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JIMMY JAZZ Elegy for Jim The elegist like the astronomer should know more of man or moon than its gibbous phase. — anonymous

A screaming came across the sky on Broadway two hours after sunrise as a black crow darted before the skyline, a small hawk in pursuit of his tail feathers. . . reminding me, strangely, of conversations in‖a‖teacher’s‖lounge at a language school in San Diego with our friend Jim Ricker

Jim, Hippie Jim, parsing the spoken words of his interlocutors asking each to think & re-think before speaking the talons of his sharp logic clipping some who dared use anecdotal evidence to support a claim

Hippie Jim, there was a fry cook in your heart and a prescriptive grammar Snoot A fry cook flipping hotcakes in a Sunday rush at the big kitchen

Hippie Jim with your MFA where is your long hair now? a fry cook who never minced words &‖a‖usage‖cop‖with‖an‖etymologist’s‖nightstick upside the head of the Green Grocer Who does‖he‖think‖he‖is‖with‖his‖’10‖Items‖or‖Less’‖sign?

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Hippie Jim, you old polemicist, you coot never angry but always ready and able to argue Everything!

Hippie Jim, with your long hair were you a Marxist? Can you explain for me one more time Marx’s‖Labor‖Theory‖of‖Value? You old union man, you Wobblie you Uber-hater We’ll‖kick‖hell‖out‖of‖any‖scab‖that‖crosses‖your‖picket‖line

Hippie Jim Why were you shaking your fist at the lack of common sense in the Ottoman Empire?

Yer cantankerous-misanthropic-curmudgeon mask didn’t‖fool‖the‖people‖you‖loved A‖circus‖tent‖couldn’t‖mask‖a‖heart‖like‖that

Hippie Jim, will they bury you in bolo tie & seersucker coat?

Will your hair be long in heaven? Will you give Jesus a piece of your mind? Will God pour you a beer & with a slap on the back say, Good Job Buddy?

Hippie Jim, you could be sober a thousand years, or a thousand lonely nights and all your courage & conviction wouldn’t‖stop‖us‖finger-waggers from waving your final vices like a red flag Did you really eat a 7-11 chili dog & chocolate milk every fucking day?

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Any man who can find joy in the grit in the bottom of a styrofoam‖cup‖of‖Folger’s, can be happy in this world.

Secret joy teacher ask your students to seize the day tap your enthusiasm in class & field trips to places they have never been

Jim, Hippie Jim, You Teacher You Reader

Who will speak at length about the great writers of our time? Who will follow Pynchon & Bill Vollmann, who will read Edward‖Abbey’s‖FBI‖file, and care about David Foster Wallace?

Who will throw his body on the gears of the capitalist machine? And wonder where Edward Abbey lies?

Jim, You teacher You Reader You Study-hard You Knower (of so many things) History dies with a man like you History falls into the memory hole

Jim, You Knower You Carer You Talker

Your hawk soars above the tower, the crow counts his days.

225

ANTHONY BLACKSHER “Donald”

And then there are the moments when the world should not feel the same when the earth should rotate a little slower Winds should push backwards Clouds should declare themselves fixed even if only for one moment

There is no comfort here and yet we are supposed to do that thing, again

Live Exist Be Breathe

Even as the oxygen cuts like glass burning like a fire when it escapes your body

These are the moments when all we have left is a love not big enough to change the world around you

What if our love was big enough to change the world around you?

Then, maybe we might find comfort

226

We could make the sky hurt like we hurt let the ground lose a little faith in gravity We could make the branches of trees reach inside themselves for growth watch the waters question their life-giving capacity while the oceans tell rivers to keep flowing anyway, keep going anyway, keep going anyway, and then once the earth has cried itself dry we'll mourn

227

MALACHI BLACK De Clementia: Prayer of the Last Prizefighter

Small god of the sea glass, imp of riverbanks and every weather, give back to the sand this knuckle-shrapnel and‖the‖hand‖that‖rattles‖like‖a‖snake’s‖tail with its loose shards of bone. Let the star whose dead light leans against me be my last enemy: may my opposition be as phantom as the shaft of its cold beam, collapsible as ash is to the touch. Surrender me to shallows and the salt gallop of a rising surf, to the dark burrow‖of‖the‖mole‖crab‖and‖the‖snail‖shell’s supple purple curve; scatter to the gulls these teeth chipped by the lifting surge of uppercut, these eyes lost in their own whites, this tongue still swollen with the pulp of its old blood. Little lost god, hidden dizzy in the driftwood, I leave to you this lip split by the language of half-luck: though I was formed of two parts water, one part dust, I was born before the first light of the sun. I know that death is‖man’s‖divinity.‖Come,‖soft‖god,‖come if I have planted ache into the hard earth‖of‖a‖man’s‖skull,‖it’s‖only‖that‖ I soothed him with the leather of my gloves. 228

GERARDO NAVARRO Border Scar

This border documents examines probes & dissects hacks dreams steals them rasp files infects them This border crosses devours relentlessly Dismembers conforms defines profiles logs Inner gridlocks of power numbers words shackles Transforms reforms deforms art & new life to meaning This border devours bodies time grinds & shuts With the siphon of its vigilance isolates chips & riddles Allows to see from the outside expands memory Trains in the 1st person reinvents‖‚I‛‖every‖morning Protects & opens gates releases the human ballasts Challenges to know the Other to‖see‖‚myself‛‖in‖it's‖mirror This border is my tongue the axis of my nightmare Bridge of outstretched hands another day of poetry & decay The end of the Westworld entrance to Latin chaos highway Time that I fill in line thinking about these lines

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This border oblivion & beginning time machine Guillotine & filter panic without sorrow or truce A quagmire of poverty defiance & scam of ingenuity Panorama of contagion trafficking retrovirus of hate This border hotbed of ignominy Ping ball funnel to rat race betrayal & tragedy The empire's paranoia observation & punishment Deportation‖from‖‚paradise‛ slump‖to‖the‖‚underworld‛ ‚You‖fall‖you‖burn‖you‖lose‛ This border has tattooed marked inscribed Screams sweat & pain fractures grammar Storms the intimate landscape diversifies all suspicions Stripped all innocence & complicated existence This border is identity wounded infidelity Undesirable reminiscence time without destiny Hook up pick up line up pulse of passage & demur Mindscape traffic return empty your life on plate

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This border throbs in me grows in me dies in me Looks at my eyes & mouth sees my skin tracking fingerprints I cross it follows my path I come & go become the Other another & the same I persist resist With roots & words I exist This border is Us & them You & I

MELISSA MENCKE CAMPBELL My Rebirth

If‖I‖were‖a‖flower‖I’d‖be‖dead now. Because it never rained and the sun beat down on me. . . and I withered and died!

But I left a seed behind and it rained and I bloomed into a beautiful Magnolia. . . fragrant and large with waxy leaves.

Then I fell off the tree into a pond and I floated there for the longest time.

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J.K. WALLEN Hart Island Hymn from the Souls to the City

Too poor for burial, unknown and unclaimed The Hart Island wind blows from the isle to the city Light cold rain falls like solemn tears

The dead plead with us to not turn away We played a part in how they ended up Too poor for burial, unknown and unclaimed

Hart island where they are neatly stacked Each alone in a plain pine box in the grim ground Light cold rain falls like solemn tears

Without countrymen or friends to pray Over their weary lost, forgotten bones Too poor for burial, unknown and unclaimed

We were from Manhattan, Queens, and the Bronx Struck down by an unseen and vicious virus Light cold rain falls like solemn tears

We once watched the sun rise and set on the city Remember us today and for your lives long Too poor for burial, unknown and unclaimed Light cold rain falls like solemn tears

232

TERRY MACRAE Lucky

Does old age come to those who are lucky? How lucky is it to suffer its many indignities? It creeps slowly on caterpillar legs, their touch, a crawling malaise of infirmities. However, caterpillars metamorphose, glossy and variegated, while old folks just grow more feeble and muted, and the only thing which moves quickly anymore is time. In a pet superstore, I shop for essentials for my cat. I say to the cashier, "My cat is a senior, may I have the senior discount?" A grin splits her face and she replies, "Senior cat, huh? Sure!" Arriving home, I toss a new toy mouse to my cat. She bats it around the room like a kitten on a catnip high until she tires of it and abandons it. Apparently she hasn't read the memo that she is old. Heed my cat's advice. When the memo reaches you, toss it, and hope your luck holds out.

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ROBERT THOMAS LUNDY Gaudeamus Ignorance

One male grad is an alumnus. This is known to most of us. If you see two strolling by, The pair ought to be termed alumni. If‖the‖grad’s‖a‖girl,‖hurrah! She, when alone is an alumna. If a pair appears, you say Collectively, they are alumnae. These terms of origin latinate Work well, when genders separate. But in this modern day and age Coeducation’s‖all‖the‖rage. When grads of both the genders mix The latin forms are in a fix The purists scowl, and suck their thumbs And‖mutter,‖‚just‖call‖them‖alums.‛

234

GLORIA KEELEY Parallel Ocean Rain the breath of dead fish beyond meditation, medication sun amidst the dark long-stemmed moon motionless ocean morning seaness four fish in a row eight if you count their shadows soon skeletal, like X-ray semaphore by fins filiform anonymous space drowned by suffocation parallel ocean rain rolling past my window swelled of moon archetypal river Iroquois shipwrecked on the Sound where are the sparrow-eaten flowers is not a leaf blooming out electric butterfly?

235

MARTE RILEY Blue Plate Special

Late evening has unseemly powers of persuasion Its muted tone induces mask removal, and the shoulda woulda couldas rise up to mingle with comforting coffee steam. A singular sorrow slinks unbidden from its covert crypt, dragging anguish as bare as bones. A‖stranger’s‖listening‖ear‖conspires‖with bacon and eggs to create asylum. Bright tears trip over one guileless glance in a moment of surprise absolution. All this, over plates littered with crumbs.

236

MARJORIE PEZZOLI Bread Cats Butterflies

Bread rose I‖didn’t‖step‖on‖the‖cat’s‖tail the monarch broke free of its chrysalis

Unfolded wings needed to open dry in the sunlight

Gentle breezes assist lift off black & orange wings spiral up into the sky

I immediately run up to my studio paint set of wings for myself

Waiting for the colors to dry I ponder many things gentle breezes drift through my window

Black & orange wings lift me up to meet the monarch butterfly

Best day ever!

237

JOSEPH D. MILOSCH Within the Bay Park

Near‖the‖park’s‖edge,‖a‖white‖crane‖alights on a boulder among boulders. Above the outcrop, blackbirds call as they chase a hawk. As if tired of all the crow commotion, a hummingbird perches on a bare branch above the orange flowers of the poppy.

On the western side of the park, the sun enters the second half of its diurnal journey while a flock of pelicans floats on a sea breeze. Now, a young woman steps from under an oak into the clearing. She wears an indigo kimono with a print of silver and yellow orchids.

From her turquoise bag, she withdraws a blue checkered blanket and spreads it on the green. Removing her robe, she folds it and places it like a pillow at the head of her blue and black cloth. Sitting down, she adjusts her dark sunglasses as her well-oiled body glistens.

Laying down, she places her hands, palms down beside her hips and sunbathes on the hill overlooking the bay. I could say that her bikini fits her body in such a way that she appears empty of fear and full of dreams.

I could say how her long black hair spins the‖sun’s‖light‖like‖some‖kind‖of music; or that she’s‖like‖an‖angel‖who‖tanned‖all‖summer‖behind a vision of a boy, but I know only that she wears a pastel bikini and sunbathes above the bay on this Wednesday.

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In the end, all that I can say truthfully is that she appears to be enraptured with her day, oblivious to the park-scape, as well as unconscionably innocent and young.

239

JAY M. MOWER Grandma's Touch

Windows translucent and ears shuttered, a frail lady reaches out, touches the belly swollen with love, now sees this young woman-child standing before her as a child on her lap. Little eyes explore‖The‖Garden‖of‖Verses,‖absorb‖Aesop’s‖Fables and learn to read. Remembers she, a grandmother, became surrogate mother and father when her only daughter divorces, works from dawn to dusk for survival. Her worn heart swells with pride at high school and college commencements, knowing abusive stepfather and absent mother fostered Timex-tested resiliency in her only granddaughter. As‖gnarled‖fingers‖feel‖our‖son’s‖kick, she can go in peace, her life continues.

240

JANELL STRUBE Heaven: Records Division

One day, the angels in Records Division had a complaint. They came to God who was sitting on His throne. ‚The‖scroll‖library‖has‖run‖out‖of‖room,‛‖Metatron said.‖Grigori‖warned,‖‚With‖so‖many‖people,‖we‖can’t keep‖track‖of‖their‖deeds.‛‖Kiraman‖disclosed‖that‖they had lost a whole month of those who had spoken of Him.

‚Not‖acceptable,‛‖cried‖God.‖Michael‖told‖Him‖they were‖overworked.‖‚What‖do‖you‖suggest?‛‖asked‖God. ‚How‖about‖another‖flood?‛‖Nuriel‖loved‖storms. ‚No,‛‖God‖said‖firmly.‖‚I‖promised.‛‖‚An‖earthquake? Fire?‖Brimstone?‛‖asked‖Liliel.‖ ‚No,‛‖God‖said.‖‚Think‖harder.‛ Everyone sat around thinking, their wings folded back, their feet swinging from the clouds. They peered down at the earth. While they watched, all the souls on Earth carried on about their business, whether good and bad. Wars came, wars went, people died, people were born.

It was getting heady from all the prayers wafting up.‖An‖hour‖passed.‖‚Well,‛‖God‖roused Himself. ‚If‖you‖cannot‖think‖of‖a‖solution,‖I‖will‖have‖to.‛ He pointed His finger from heaven and said, ‚Let‖there‖be. . . Facebook.‛ Behind Him, Satan who had been sunning himself on‖a‖cloud,‖uncoiled‖and‖said,‖‚Right‖behind‖ya,‖man.‛

241

FRAN FINLEY Bearing My Name

I have lived here long the furrowed brow Now looking at the years you harbored maybe many more to go when you pondered the I do not know future Leaning in to the mirror the next step I say who are you now I have traveled with you This face staring back at me the moment says where the road ended I have been here with you of all you knew breathing through this I turned with you the path beautiful nose you took beyond tomorrow I have seen you where you ventured alone watched you learn me even when you traveled When you were a child beside another the mirror told you a story I am the tear you cried as you unfolded and the anguish you felt you painted me alone in the night Fresh you said in the cold moments of then left me despair cold and weathered When the path led you into in the winter the darkness scorched in the sun I held your light safe when life pulled you and your head high fierce into it I am the face you showed Then you learned me to the world and changed me as the the warrior that would not seasons die of your life unfolded I am the face and body and now you ask reborn who you are to hide the scars I am the body you I am the face held to the have worn sun the worry the eyes that gave you sight you have borne 242 to see the beauty in the Blessed I say to you seasons of your life the mouth to tell the monster there would be no more days of misery the eyes of the warrior to say I will slay you if you try Now I look to your arms in these later years and see the mighty fists that beat your chest to say I will not fall to defeat I see the mighty legs that took you far into the path you travel feet to hold you steady even though the mind directs you to run I know how far and how fast to roam away from this thing that threatens you Now you ask who you are I am the face the body the will in which you live form in which you stand the temple in which you were blessed born to the majesty of your function as you lay your days one step into another

243

EVELYN BURROUGHS

Lena , Doing what we did every afternoon around 4 Grandma Dora preparing dinner and me singing along with the radio station’s‖pop‖tunes.‖.‖.cube steaks smothered in dark gravy, smelling‖up‖the‖kitchen,‖Irish‖potatoes‖on‖low‖boil.‖I’m‖in‖the‖ living room when I hear Lena Horne start one of my favorites on the little Philco Don’t‖know‖why‖aint‖no‖sun‖up‖in‖the‖sky‖ Stormy Weather, me and my man. . . he kitchen door bangs open Grandma barges her 5-foot-4 formidable frame through aint together the‖ door,‖ grabbing‖ me‖ by‖ one‖ arm‖ ‚What‖ do‖ you think‖ you’re‖ doing?‛‖ in‖ her other hand a wooden spatula. . .Lena and I continue it’s raining all the ti-ime.‖‚You‖ don’t‖know‖what‖you’re‖saying!‛‖I‖hear the potatoes quicken their‖boil.‖‚Yes‖I do,‖It’s‖Lena!‛‖when‖ me and my man aint together she tightens her grasp, squeezing my forearm so fierce‖tears‖stream‖down‖my‖cheeks‖All‖I‖have‖in‖life‘s‖gone‖ ‚You‖got‖enough‖fast ways‖for‖eleven.‖Don’t‖you‖ever‖let me‛‖ yanking‖me‖into‖her‖bosom‖mountain,‖‚hear‖you singing that trash!‛‖Lena’s‖sultry‖tone‖lifts‖over‖Dora’s‖rage‖Keep‖rainin’‖ all the ti-ime Keep rainin’‖ all‖ the‖ ti-ime before she snatches Lena off the Philco. At supper, the cube steak tastes like it was boiled in brown brine and vinegar, my arm still throbbing, throbbing from her clutch but through tight lips, I feel the gut moan of gloomandmiseryeverywhere gloomandmiseryeverywhere Right before she slides a plate of pound cake slices onto the table, Daddy and Mama start a cryptic account about something worrying the deacon board the pastor Mrs Wilson hands‖ choir‖ rehearsal‖ police‖ sergeant‖ husband‖ Don’t‖ know‖ why aint no sun. . .

244

CAROLYN MOGAVERO A Mother's Lament

Listen to my heartbeat young child for my love is great. Moments of life within the womb brought a smile to my soul. You are great within a Universe of indecisions. The person you are exceeds all on this Earthly plane. A world of uncertainty creates illusions on your soul. Just remember my heartbeat as I remember yours. Through the mazes and the fog remember who you are. Tolerance and kindness are found more in streams and are only delusions of the fog. The fight to create it is worth the journey true. So listen to my heartbeat young child for my love for you is great. You are always loved in a world sometimes unkind.

245

AHLIA DEMAS To Captain Land Mine. . .

Dauntingly handsome It's the mask that makes him so. Beneath the peel-able layer, a monstrous grin razor teeth with clinging shards of skin from previous maiden fleshlings. Specter of love posed as his bait. Luring words and cobalt blue eyes, his worm of horrendous fruit. Another siren allured. Aboard his schooner he spews a cacophony of madness and sorrow showers in vodka before he commences in the eviscerate by a prophylactic lobotomy. After which, upon removing her pearl, he returns the shard remains back into the dank sea still bleeding and limbless perfect for a shark feast

246

SUSIE PARKER On Aging

Death Shadows me Like a well-paid private eye Glancing at his watch, Waiting for the time, To take me into custody

Will I go as a martyr? Eyes heavenward, gracefully yielding Or as a hellcat? Shrieking and kicking

Shark or microbe? Blood clot or car crash? Agents of Death Among many

No postponement possible.

247

RACHEL M. GOBAR Subconscious Faults of the Inner Critic my heart is breaking it is a ground of faults tired it begs to be heard Silent screams reach out from gaping holes within the cracks that run deep in the unknown the crevices within its floor are its mouth breaching the world like a newborn stunned by the bindings

248

MARY O’CONNOR West of the Summer Fires

The ash is settling particulating though the yellow air from forests dry as wicks

The sun is sinking on the hazy edge of it red, its heart is in its boots

The atoms settle, slif, slof, on sidewalks, in lungs, ours we wait for ash to settle, hope to cough it out on clearer days

Ash particulates are percolating settling sifting down the narrow hourglass neck of earth, running out

No, we are running out of time of excuses, tick tocking towards a finish.

Shh. Ashes, Ashes, we all fall down.

249

KRISTEN D. SCOTT Traveling the Pine Barrens

September Sunday, we drove through the Pine Barrens New Jersey seemed like a rustic mining town on the other side of the world. Steam rifted off hillsides of frost, sun licked porticos into the icy banks

We followed side roads as they twisted like Colorado’s‖Gold‖ Camp Road, cutting through Rocky Mountain tunnels from Bear Creek to Cripple Creek. I even caught a Redheaded Woodpecker knocking on a Pine, his head so strange, like a rooster’s‖comb.‖I‖imagined‖a‖loud‖cock-a-doodle-doo

Was I here before, mixing the terrains? Or did the frosted windshield swooshing the fog take me out of my head and into him – him. . . parting hair from my eyes, tucking it behind my left ear. We drove too, in a small space of time.

Two men. They did have the same eyes. Yes, but different hands – hands. . . One of his jammed inside rust, cowhide gloves, piloting the turns, the other in my naked palm, tracing fingers, flicking nails our breath clouding the glass, like delicate spider webs in between crisp-autumn Aspen leaves.

The other side of this road leads to the Jersey Shore; a seaside rendezvous, and a weekend laughing at his stupid jokes, sipping his tawdry-unfortunate port.

Two men, two merges in empty hallways to somewhere else, and two very different women.

250

JOSÉ JORGE MARTINEZ The Barber

In a barbershop in Barrio Logan, big boisterous Benny cuts a customer's hair with comb and scissors, clipping away bangs and sideburns, while talking about bullfighting in Tijuana's Plaza de Toros. He says he went last Wednesday, and the bullfighter got the ears, but not the tail. He waves the scissors in the air and spits a bit as he loudly proclaims that his bullfighter uncle Carlos from Catalonia, Spain, always got the tail, even on his worst days. He takes his brush and swipes away the hair from his customer's neck, and with a graceful gesture, he maneuvers the red barber's cape off his client's body and performs a full Veronica. I could have been a bullfighter myself, he says, and in reverence, waves an imaginary matador's montera hat to his applauding audience.

251

JON WESICK That Moment you realize you never had a chance

Despite the years moving the coffee table and‖dad’s‖ashtray to practice karate between the recliner and color TV despite the blue LEDs on your first calculator and the decade scribbling sigmas, deltas, and exponents beneath the Dalí poster in your dorm room despite thousands of hours squeezing a plot from blank legal pads, meetings with editors, drafts e-mailed back and forth, covers, and publication contracts, you enter a world of clogged drains, flat tires, unemployment offices, and‖singles’‖groups‖filled with‖mad‖scientists’‖experiments gone horribly wrong.

You hide your wound and flee consoling words that never meant a damn anyway

252

GRANT QUACKENBUSH Double Abecedarian: Email to a Young Poet, re: Advice?

All right, listen up. First what you want to do is blend Ritz, / bananas and orange juice together until you get a creamy / consistency. Add ghost pepper hot sauce, Ex-Lax, / Diet Pepsi, gunpowder, a glass of gasoline and a dozen raw / eggs for protein. Blend again, and enjoy. I call it a Molotov / fruit smoothie because, like a Molotov cocktail or fu- /‖gu,‖it’s‖liable‖to‖kill‖you.‖Either‖way‖it’ll‖turn‖ your butt- / hole into a flamethrower the next day when you pass gas. / If that sounds gross or dangerous, consider all the other / junk people (myself included) ingest: rubbery burgers from DQ, / Kentucky Fried Chicken, All You‖Can‖Eat‖pancakes‖at‖IHOP…‖/‖Look. The‖point‖I’m‖trying‖to‖make‖with‖all‖this‖mumbo‖jumbo‖/‖ Molotov talk is that you have to learn to cope with pain. / Noxious amounts of it. And not temporarily, but ad infinitum. / Otherwise you risk becoming not a poet but a mental / patient who chops off his ear and drowns himself‖in‖drink.‖/‖Quit‖writing‖if‖you‖can’t‖handle‖a‖little‖ gasoline and OJ. / Rejection will hurt more. Trust me. It’ll‖feel‖like‖a‖samurai‖/‖sword‖sodomizing‖your‖ego‖without‖ lube. Van Gogh / took his own life it hurt him so bad. Preferred pushing / up daisies to living broke and unknown. RIP. So punch yourself / violently in the nuts. Give a sumo wrestler a piggyback ride. / Watch Fight Club while guzzling the aforementioned / XXX smoothie. Get used to pain to make rejection less tragic. / Young poet: take‖care.‖I’d‖ramble‖on‖but‖I‖have‖a‖date‖with‖a‖sub- / zero walk-in‖freezer.‖Naked.‖I’m‖trying‖to‖contract‖pneumonia.

253

DON SCHOFIELD Bongos . . . I hung on like death: Such waltzing was not easy. —THEODORE ROETHKE

At‖twelve‖I’d‖go‖through‖the‖house‖ pounding tables and chairs, doorways and lampshades, maybe from anger, maybe from‖eagerness‖to‖be‖with‖this‖family‖I’d‖lived‖with‖before, though divorce was now in the air. I pounded so much that‖mother‖bought‖me‖bongos.‖At‖first‖I’d‖hit‖them with my fists, knowing it all was about to collapse, then began working hard at keeping a rhythm going since‖one‖day‖soon,‖I‖knew,‖she’d‖put‖me‖on‖a‖bus back to my father, my real father, no father at all.

That was Fresno, where I learned to drum with calloused palms, aching wrists, faster and faster, harder and harder, to beat back loss before it could come. I was sure nothing in the world could save me but bongos, that all I wanted was to be with that Cherokee house-painter in his fifties, that soft-spoken Italian in her twenties, to be the child they‖could‖never‖have,‖even‖if‖he’d‖come‖home‖drunk, beat‖me‖with‖the‖palm‖of‖his‖hand‖or‖his‖belt‖till‖she’d intervene,‖then‖he’d‖lift‖me‖on‖his‖shoulders,‖ totter room to room, singing out his love for me, for her, for the entire world, then send me off, with one last swat, to bed.

254

All‖night‖I’d‖tap‖at‖my‖chest‖to‖find‖a‖rhythm that could calm my aching, frightened heart. I could feel her love shifting away, something else inside me rising to take its place, pushing me to pound even more, some yearning to beat open a door, step into another‖life,‖where‖love‖isn’t‖fear,‖where‖there’s‖more for a boy of twelve than this craving for a mother not his, a father who can beat him and love him at the same time.

On that afternoon express to Sacramento, convinced it was my fault they split, I kept tapping a dull rhythm on the armrest, no home, no home. Then I knew what to do: there, on that crowded Greyhound, I started pounding my bare knees, faster and faster, louder and louder, skin against skin, elbows, wrists, fists and palms, riveting my heart to a place where love never fails, where, in contrapuntal rhythm, hands blur, knees sway.

255

CHRYSTOPHVER R Beyond Recollection

Beyond recollection of the naïve, whoever we were, whatever we did. . . harmonically blended by the sweet nectar hum swarming with bees, the house of last days, the sweating wood-rot scent of the old family porch,

Aunt‖Lilly’s‖face,‖ my‖father’s‖glance,‖ mother’s‖giving‖arms,‖ the echoed squeal of a child,

Aunt‖Charlotte’s‖art‖of‖balance,‖ and mystery, grandmother’s‖ confirming smile; the moment melts sunlight to a honey glaze the volcano smolders, lingering repose, embracing what was, once more. . .

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ALAN ARCHER Forest in a Pharmacy

At the Walmart Pharmacy, picking up Metformin. A woman in‖a‖powder‖blue‖frock‖calls‖‚next,‛‖ & as she asks my date of birth I notice leaves‖sprouting‖from‖her‖pharmacist’s‖frock; this is no pole dancer, no runny-nosed heroin junkie, & I am forced to crumple up my stereotypes like scribbles on a yellow post-it, pop them in my mouth sans salt & ketchup & swallow. Swallow hard.

And‖I‖notice‖a‖cat’s‖head‖&‖castle,‖a‖raven‖ & a bluebird woven into those tattooed Vines that cling to a tapering branch of arm, as fingers like twigs search the back wall for the unadorned bag with my pills.

Is the plan to cover her entire body in forest? I wonder, as she rings up my order & staples the bag shut, like piercing a nipple.

A now nameless tattoo artist will nourish this needled forest, etch every pink inch of her in bark & glistening leaf; butterflies will glide, robins will sing. And I will reappear with every turn of the calendar like‖‚rent‖due,‛‖admiring‖the‖frenzied‖progress‖ of branches & leaves as they swallow her skin like a forest on haunches, devouring a city.

For the dying always envy the living.

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C. V. WILL Night. . . takes me into her arms. We drift off into dreams, scheming to defeat dawn.

She murmurs on about intimacies, unlacing sweet secrets.

We share the shadow hours. She whispers of ancient veils falling in nomad tents.

Sweat and spices worn into rough blankets and heavy rugs.

Her tongue pauses then tells a tale of night fires traded for silk and gold. Her lips draw back, she laughs like the wind tickles sand over desert lands. Music and dancers play until the players sleep.

She nudges lovers. We creep under blankets with them. Breath and air musky, sweet heat like summer vapors. Night clings to me even after dawn drops light over her stars and milky moon.

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LIZZIE WANN Quiet Place

I turned the page of my library book and there, rested between dialogue, was‖a‖pressed‖leaf‖unlike‖any‖I’d‖seen‖before it looked almost like a leaf cutout its shape irregular small ridges fanning out from the base but the stem, tough and woody, flattened from the crease

I flipped the book, shook it a second leaf, same kind, just smaller, younger slipped out from its quiet place who placed them and when are questions I asked myself, but then another: how many readers saw them yet kept them safely stowed – gentle gifts for the next reader to take up, spin slowly, touch delicately maybe even, like me, they conjured familial relationships, a mother leaf a daughter leaf, separated by words independent but connected by history, by their similarities able to exist without the other but choosing to remain close just a few chapters apart

I replaced the leaves in new pages kissed on either side by prose for the next reader to discover

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HILARY WALLING In Palermo

The calico cat and the ginger cat They live in the Hotel Al Giardino And they take their moonlight strolls Under the palazzos of old.

In their world of sunshine and flowers They live in innocent bliss What do they know of the heartaches And suffering of the human world.

They live in the timeless stupor Of this city of beauty and ruins And‖the‖city’s‖romances‖and‖secrets For them will remain untold.

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SHARON L. THOMPSON The True Cost of Things

When I walked out on my second husband for good, at the real end of it, I was rash enough to stand and simply watch as he, suddenly boneless, slid down the wall coming to rest on the pale kitchen floor, fingers trembling and splayed as if fearing he would sink deep into linoleum.

Heart as hard and dark as our blacktop driveway, I gazed as he went slightly mad. And watching him. And watching him thought ‚Good‖china.‖Dinette‖set.‖Car,‛ while considering meeting my new lover for lunch.

Frantically working to avoid the brush of middle age, I busy myself with endless, useless errands, until my eldest son comes home to introduce a lovely young woman. Hand softly cupping her slim brown neck, his eyes fill with fresh promise. And watching him, and watching him, I am frantic to lunge back in time. Beg unearned mercy. Plead a gentle word. Search, try, claw at anything, feathers, bones, my own blood, anything at all to ward away this‖young‖woman’s‖shining‖ability‖ to melt my son to nothing while considering what else she might do.

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MEL TAKAHARA Plum Dance for Sumie

A dance in 5 movements for 5 dancers

Bare limbs reach out and upward into the cold air Moonlight filtered through grey fingers mottles the black earth with glow

Petals fall white petals drift and swirl in the morning breeze swirling through grasses dancing

Leaves sprout, unfold, trembling in the noon sun dressing branches spreading shade on the dirt

Falling plums split on river stones and weep their dark nectar on glistening evening stones

The stream flows away flows away from here to an orchard

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JEAN E. TADDONIO A Cactus Garden Day

It is a cactus garden kind of day I sit among the sticky darts wondering‖why‖I’m‖here sharpened spears at every turn prickly curves stay-away spikes yellow birds have flown not one feather left behind gray-green living sculptures stand motionless un-moved by cooling breeze like me in sullen stillness spring flowers try to lure with fragrant cheer but I can only see their camouflage of thorns and await the promised floods to flash their pent up waters clear the landscape scatter seeds and hope for new tomorrows it’s‖a‖cactus‖kind‖of‖day‖‖‖

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JANE MUSCHENETZ In Short

Post-addiction Former high-school beauty After slew of deadbeats Fell for hidden egomaniac online.

He wanted a trophy She wanted stability Now, they have unhappiness In a big house in Chula Vista

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LISA ALBRIGHT RATNAVIRA My Daughter

She follows me dragonflies feathers memories She gathers me flowers wishes the hope of a grandchild She centers me words brushstrokes creating A love between veils I leave the light on just in case.

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PENNY PERRY Black Velvet Slacks for my mother

In the dressing room I take a deep breath make my belly flat, think of you in your velvet suit Grandma copied from Vogue that last winter. Stitching on her old Singer she had grumbled: ‚That‖crazy‖dieting‖will‖kill my‖daughter.‛ Ten pounds heavier than you ever were, I turn in the full length mirror,

‚Picture‖a‖pound‖of‖potatoes,‛ you‖once‖said,‖‚then‖imagine them‖on‖your‖inner‖thighs.‛ You drank vinegar, dropped cigarette ashes on tea room sandwiches, then binged on pickled herring brine. Dieting killed you. I buried your beauty magazines in our back yard and grew into one of those dowdy women you despised, a dumpling in pedal pushers, no make-up, hiding in loose shirts you despised. Nights, I asked did you want to die or did you believe a thinner you would reel your husband home?

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I exhale, wriggle tug into size 10 black slacks, run my hand along the‖velvet‖nap.‖‚Velvet’s‖so‖elegant,‛ you said on our trip to New York.

Under a hotel awning, you stood smiling at the Manhattan sidewalk. Your white satin blouse gleamed like the falling snow.

I breathe button the slacks, and rummage through the torn lining of my purse, for the tube of lipstick I buried there.

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SUZANNE O’CONNELL Dogs Will Bite

‚Excuse‖me,‛‖I‖said. She had parked her BMW SUV in my driveway and was getting out. Her car had out-of-state plates. ‚Can‖I‖park‖in‖your‖driveway‖for‖a‖minute,‛‖she‖asked? ‚How‖long‖is‖a‖minute?‛‖I‖said. She had blonde shiny hair and expensive athletic shoes. Her car was packed with stuff because she was moving into the apartment across the street. I figured she was a college student starting school in two days. I wondered why she chose this neighborhood? Not Beverly Hills or Westwood? ‚Oh,‖fifteen,‖twenty‖minutes,‛‖she‖said. ‚My‖husband‖is‖coming‖home‖soon‖or‖I‖would‖say‖yes,‛‖ I said. ‚No‖problem,‛‖she‖said,‖with‖a‖dismissive‖flick‖of‖her‖wrist. As she re-parked, her friends helped her move. A van showed up. Boxes were carried in. Everything seemed to be going smoothly for her.

At 3:15 a.m., the helicopters began circling. Their search lights shined on us and nearby streets. Circling, low flying, circling. A police loudspeaker began: ‚Stay‖inside.‖Do‖not unlock your doors. I repeat, do not unlock your doors. Do not go outside. In five minutes, police dogs will be released. They are trained to find suspects. The dogs will bite. I‖repeat,‖the‖dogs‖will‖bite.‛

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The helicopters circled as the message was repeated in English and Spanish.

While my husband was thinking about the German Shepherd he thought he saw on our porch, I was thinking about college girl across the street. I pictured boxes of clothing from Boden Catalog, her computer and her fancy coffee maker unpacked. I imagined her grabbing her phone: ‚Mom,‖I’ve‖made‖a‖mistake. I‖can’t‖stay‖here. Get‖me‖out‖of‖this‖neighborhood,‖I’m‖not‖safe.‖ Mom,‖I’m‖gonna‖die‖before‖school starts‖on‖Monday.‛

Circling, low flying, circling. ‚The‖dogs‖will bite. The‖dogs‖will‖bite.‛‖‖

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LENNY LIANNE The Little Girl Inside Me is Crying in the Time of Coronavirus

She wishes she were with friends, hand-clapping and chanting the sing-songy Miss Susie Had a Steamboat or Miss Mary-Mack-Mack instead of being stuck inside as‖she’s‖been‖told.‖‖Out‖the‖window the sky looks as blue as hydrangeas but she sees no one in their garden and,‖inside,‖she’s‖crying.

The red-haired girl who, as a rule, rides down the flat sidewalk on a bike with training wheels doubtless is indoors too.

Same with the towheaded twins who live in the catty-corner house and lately played catch, both before or just after dinner and‖inside‖too‖she’s‖crying.

Those few adults around her act frightened as if very scared of something they‖can’t‖see which might strike them, or her, so she hides in the dark corner of her bedroom where, if someone or something snuck a look through the window,

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they‖wouldn’t‖see‖her,‖sitting in the corner in her small rocking chair, holding on tightly, trying to be brave but, inside she is crying.

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MARIA KOTSAFTIS What Remains in memoriam Steve Kowit, a great teacher and wonderful man

That slight flutter in your belly, in the beginning, when a smile from that special someone your heart has chosen, flies to you and makes you feel that anything is possible. You can see yourself walking on water or gliding up high and free like a swallow, with the wind singing in your ears. You radiate the bright light the other has lit within you, so that you walk among the crowd like a shining lantern, igniting all. People sense it and are elated. You are a night sky full of stars, a lighthouse, showing the way to terra firma.

The moment when a newborn, not sure where it has landed, is held for the first time. Tightly bundled, it gazes at you with this intense and knowing look. Tiny, perfect fingers ball into a fist around your enormous index. Your heart does not belong to you any longer. All you want is to offer yourself to this magnificent creature, keeping it from harm. You wish to become the invisible blanket that envelops, comforts and protects this little soul into eternity.

When, after having walked the path together for quite a while,‖ and‖ even‖ though‖ your‖ fear‖ rears‖ its‖ ugly‖ dragon’s‖ head, making the looming absence an impossibly vast and dark wasteland to traverse, you let me go. One cannot keep it in a cage. In a cage it withers and dies. That the Latin root of the‖word‖‘beloved’‖shares‖a‖stem‖with‖the‖word‖‘freedom,’‖is‖ no coincidence. Do not worry, mein Lieber, I will come right back. What would I do without you, sweet guardian of my liberty?

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When I see you again. Life may have separated us after a glorious first meeting. We have laughed and cried together. Over long distances and years. The invisible thread binding us over time and continents was spun out generously and has never been severed. And whenever we reel in the line -our lives’‖battle‖scars‖more‖and‖more‖visible‖as‖time‖goes‖by- it is as‖if‖we‖had‖never‖left‖each‖other’s‖ side, and in a sense we never have. You are just as beautiful, even more so now, and reuniting with you makes me jump with joy.

When I come to visit you after a long absence, you have forgotten who you are and what you did, all traces erased. You look at me long and with a penetrating and concentrated gaze, and then you look at my picture that hangs on the wall over your bed. For another moment you contemplate my face, searching for the clue to your question. Kind grey blue eyes seeking mine. You may not know who I am, and words have failed you, but your heart remembers what we shared.

When you told me years before that you do not want to know once all hope is lost. So, I do not tell you that one more surgery cannot avert the unavoidable. I take you there, hide the‖ doctor’s‖ findings‖ from‖ you‖ and‖ try‖ to‖ be‖ by‖ your‖ side,‖ even though you are angry and unapproachable; God knows we have not had an easy time with each other. Now I tell your stories to your grandchildren and in the scorching summer heat, I sprinkle water on your grave, so your tired bones are refreshed.

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KATHY KEOGH Black Licorice and Ragweed

He is black licorice and ragweed. A scratchy wool sweater too tight around the neck. A mosquito at bedtime buzz, buzz, buzzing. A bad poem with forced rhymes and no meter- dressed up in calligraphy and parchment paper. He is spam and junk mail promising riches from foreign princes or long-lost uncles asking for my credit card and my maiden name. He is second hand smoke when I've just quit smoking. He is shoes that are too tight and that sock that keeps falling into it. He is stale beer and 3 percent battery life and elevator conversations. He is black licorice and ragweed. He is black licorice and ragweed. He is black licorice and ragweed.

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GAYLE O’KEY Then and Now

Time went from being the seemingly endless apple pie dream of my American life, to a demolition derby where democracy crashed and burned at every turn, our institutions landed in flaming pileups and‖Nero’s‖fiddle‖echoed‖ in the background. Meanwhile, lies darkened the sky like ash from a volcano until the screech of brakes stopped time dead as Virus went viral and an unseen knee hovered over every throat. There’s‖no‖good‖end for this poem, but eventually Time will provide one maybe an escape hatch through‖which‖we’ll‖ rise, or Science riding in on a white horse or a blue wave. Meanwhile, I cling to the thought that every nightmare is temporary, and the words of the Buddha: ‚It‖can’t‖rain‖forever.‛

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GWYN HENRY Pandemic Escape: Poem 3

If trees could fly maybe if they tried really hard to leave their roots this is what they might look like: the strain of wing-branches on the edges of their crowns trailing outward. . .

I once read an article that told of a species of trees their spread from coast to coast described as a march across the continent just imagine trees marching. . .

The day I took this picture the trees were feeling the energy boil as humans fled the pandemic (if not fleeing literally then in their human hearts & minds)

While deep underground roots weave (eternal) their netted webs for miles on miles their arboreal internet

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& I wonder if that web has alerted each tree to our plight & if so will the trees send us help the way they do each other?

& I also wonder: should we start praying again should we start praying again & again (as we once did) to the trees?

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LESLIE HENDRICKSON-BARAL Forfeiting Time in my last conversation with God I could sense a cooling trend never completely averting our shared gaze I could smell that camouflaged baited trap half breaths silent as moon beams whole truths quiet as the sunlight taking care while avoiding piercing pitfalls this airtight tightrope stroll demands cross my heart pledged allegiance we living are all yet to understand an all consuming persuasive grace within outstretched arms length reach

I must keep Him close by my bed above sheets and under cover committed to this discipline of heart avoiding false face and spin and everything that counseled my course will bear weight and witness

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WILLIAM HARRY HARDING Sometimes, OB = a Jersey Shore Dive Bar

Woman in a too-big sweater and faded jeans parks her pickup, its bed covered by a brown tarp, in the drive-thru lane, steps to the ATM, blocking the sedan pulling up. Shouts exchanged: anger enjoyed.

Guy in a faded wife-beater tells a friend at a half-open car door that sure, he does care about national security but still trusts the man in the Oval because, like the President, he, too, cheated on his wife, and that doesn't make either of them bad people, does it? Long, windy silence.

Bicyclist alongside a new Audi at a stop sign waves traffic to go around him, talks about why Air BnB's make sense, except maybe for pushing up rents. Besides, the homeless will make vacationing here less desirable, so everything works itself out: a natural balance.

Gen Xer on a retaining wall, legs dangling, phone to an ear, saying it wasn't her fault they lost the contract, it's a cosmic force at work here, like ocean waves, and no argument: Pizza Port is still the best in town.

Instead of lazy sunny strolls with my daughter in her favorite San Diego beach town, past alleys offering a view of black dumpsters, blue recycling bins, the gray-green Pacific, I sometimes find myself back in some dingy Jersey Shore dive bar, overhearing bits of punctured lives, people leaking from the ruptured parts, sniffing for wisdom in the salt breeze, and, like me in those bars so long ago, searching for the way out.

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JOAN GERSTEIN Pandora Puts Zeus in His Place

Really, Zeus, you give me, first female, a jar and forbid me to open it. You knew this was like nectar to a hummingbird, honey to a bear, knew youth was impervious to consequences. So full of yourself, you think your word is god. Get real, Zeus. Even your saints have flaws.

I am tired of apologizing, crying black acid. You set me up to take the blame for war, hatred,‖all‖world’s suffering when It was you, Zeus, petty and petulant, who punished humanity for disobeying the gods. I will not wear a price tag for the gift of fire.

Hera has put up with you for eons, knows your vanity. Call me Lamastu, call me Lilith, call me Eve, blame‖women‖for‖all‖world’s‖evils while you forbid me to release hope. I’m‖not‖hot‖water,‖a‖can‖of‖worms,‖a‖quagmire. I’m‖not‖a‖metaphor‖for‖endless‖complications.

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ROGER FUNSTON Woods Wandering

Lacing up hiking boots, donning daypack Early morning in the woods Moisture still clinging to the leaves from rainfall the night before Moss spreading on tree trucks Fungi carpeting the forest floor Wind whooshing, grass swaying, trees creaking The forest is singing

Layers worn to protect against the cold The coolness on my face makes me feel alive My racing mind quieted for a moment Listening to my breath Condensation hovering around my mouth as I exhale The rhythmic crunching as wandering feet travel along a trail of small gravel and earth My walking meditation

Steam rising from plants warmed by the sun Song birds twittering Squirrels scurrying Newts lounging A‖woodpecker’s‖rhythmic‖pounding‖ The distant sound of a roaring creek getting louder as I approach The air caressing my skin as I peel off layers

I hike nearly every day Often returning to the same trails Seeing something new every time Usually a small spot with an interesting texture captured by light and shade in a certain way Many say these days that they feel bored and imprisoned but I am grateful to have wonderful spots so close by and the freedom in retirement to wander in awe 281

DIANE FUNSTON After California Fires

Birds return to blackened trees now cracked open with nourishment. Snow flowers bloom bright red, rise from ash in flamboyant assertion, foxes and bears roam the charred landscape, a settling-in follows, population grows.

Humans scatter far. Homes burned, prices gouged as they migrate to cities, towns, away from forests where they inserted themselves.

Avarice rebuilds what fire claims again and again. No learning curve, it seems. Buy land. Build houses. Create isolated businesses, and wait. . . for the match to strike again.

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KATHY LUNDY DERENGOWSKI God Bless the Unknown Poet

God bless the poet who does not appear in The New Yorker who‖doesn’t‖subscribe‖to‖Paris Review who‖doesn’t‖have‖an‖MFA,‖or‖live‖in‖academia‖

God bless the poet whose verses are scrawled on the backs of envelopes, stuffed into drawers, lost among report cards, coupons and bills

God bless the poet who thinks a Slam is sacrament, lyrics are liturgy and publication a benediction.

God bless the poet who has never submitted the poet who has been rejected, and the poet who does not give up.

God bless the sonnets and songs the limericks and lullabies, the verses and villanelles.

And when you come into your kingdom, Lord Remember me, whom you have scourged with poetry assaulted or redeemed, I hardly know.

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ANNETTE FRIEND Sarah’s Dressing Table

There you were broad shoulders spindly legs waiting for love forlorn in a broken-down‖antique‖dealer’s‖window some half-assed Florida backwater hot humid air breathing down on us me just fired form a flea-ridden circus again between jobs you whispered to me of a comfortable life so carefully planned out so not like mine solid oak with curlicue decorations etched into your wood a sketch of a young girl rose lips and cheeks on your one drawer half smile for a secret maybe tucked away inside only a few bucks on me owner and I grappled for a while but with no other business in sight you were mine thirty years we swept this country together job to job apartment to apartment I‖kept‖you‖smooth‖and‖sparkling‖‖‖‖‖pretty‖girl’s‖face peering to the future knowing something brighter was squirreled away somewhere this last move a hard one stored you for a while went to bring you home your legs were broken cracked in half like a huge weight had been dropped on your delicate bones

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storage company will pay I can fix you that’s‖not‖the‖point trusted someone else to take care no one bothered to hide you from harm maybe the best of me shattered without a second thought on‖how‖we’d‖survive

ALLISON SMITH Morning in the Mountains

Crisp, cool air at dawn caresses my skin. Ears pink, to match my rosy cheeks. A blanket of deep blue hovers above, becoming brighter as each minute passes. The wind whistles a tune through the rustling trees, breaking through the song of silence. Day breaks, illuminating the lustrous lake that mirrors the sky. The brilliant sun greets me as the birds sing me their morning melody. Leaves and pine needles crunch beneath my bare feet. An eagle glides overhead, drifting above the sea of pine trees, as its call echoes below. I breathe deeply, as the fresh air cleanses my soul.

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NANCY FOLEY His Tobacco Cabinet

A whiff of earthy tobacco and I am a child watching as my grandfather removes a small pouch from his cabinet packs the substance into a sturdy carved pipe taps it down once or twice, strikes a wooden match sucks in his cheeks, then puffs, while the billowy smoke rises from this miniature chimney.

A slim, stately, silver-haired man over six feet tall, wearing wire-rimmed glasses. Serious, stern, but soft-spoken, a baker of wedding cakes at a downtown department store but I never saw him in the kitchen never tasted one of his cakes can’t‖imagine‖him‖wearing‖an‖apron only grandma did that.

Bobo’s‖eyes‖danced‖when‖he‖played‖the‖harmonica but were stone-cold when we played dominoes.

There were five daughters and two sons, my mother the oldest. After Aunt Marita eloped with John, a divorced man, my‖grandfather‖wouldn’t‖allow‖Uncle‖John‖ to enter their home. Mother said Bobo read the Bible cover to cover more than once.

In his sunset years he sat at the table shuffling a deck of plastic-coated cards hoping to win at Solitaire one more time. He died from emphysema.

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When grandma died a decade later, I requested Bobo’s‖small‖scratched tobacco cabinet with four spindly legs a curved handle at the top, and a decorated carved door that snaps open when I pull the bronze knob. It sits next to my journal chair, and sometimes I peer in visualize a well-worn pipe, a weathered tobacco pouch a set of dominoes, and even hear the faint sounds of the harmonica playing Auld Lang Syne.

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CASEY DERENGOWSKI It Happened So Quickly

I sit in a cell with bars for a door a solitary window allows light on my face besides my Christian name I now have a number yesterday‖was‖my‖birthday,‖I’m‖now‖an‖adult.

I joined a local group, some call it a gang it’s‖a‖macho‖thing‖for‖misfits‖like‖me we say goofy things just for a laugh and strut about with much false bravado.

To prove myself as a fearsome dude to‖make‖an‖impression‖with‖thugs‖in‖the‖‚club‛ I decided to rob a Credit Union that should prove what a big shot I am.

With a pistol tucked in the belt of my pants a red bandana covering nose and mouth I walked into the place, right up to the teller an elderly woman, much like my Mom.

I showed her the gun, asked for some cash she riveted her eyes into my face ‚You’re‖a‖most‖foolish‖lad‖to‖start‖life‖this‖way Turn‖right‖around,‖go‖look‖for‖a‖job!‛

I froze in my place speechless at best I’d‖not‖get‖a‖dime, only her lecture I had expected a most quick response bills in a bag, a fast retreat.

The rest is detailed in a felony complaint how police apprehended a daytime thief It‖all‖happened‖so‖quickly,‖the‖gun‖wasn’t‖loaded I transitioned from youth to felonious adult.

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LIZ SZYMANSKI Night on the Green River

Jolt awake. Eyes no, stars blink down at my face.

I breathe in whipped smoke and soft campfire ash.

I feel exposed along the empty bank. I left the tent behind for air: the real, rare river air that tastes the way ice burns. But tonight, I gulp down only lonely droplets from a condensing moon.

I tuck into the sleeping bag, burrow up to my eyes so I see what the light stands on.

Rocks under my back press further down into the earth. I will not sink. I inhale, soften like darkness.

Moonshine‖webs‖and‖beads‖on‖night’s‖broad‖arms. The cool river swishes like kettle steam. Cattails slither and the winged things chirr.

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TED BURKE The Lights Come Up

So you give a speech demanding the sky open up and a for a single beam of angel-haired light to shine upon your palm where the keys to the Kingdom appear as if in a dream.

And then you awake and realize that it was a dream and a shower is running in the bathroom and realize in a panic that punches you in the chest right through the pillow you clutch that you have no idea where you are.

You dress in a hurry and sneak across the wood floor that squeaks and groans as you move through the door.

On the street you gaze longingly into a store window and see how you've dressed for the day, shabbier than a tennis shoe left alone on a gas station dumpster.

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Where have all the flowers gone? you are wondering as you sit in the corner of the bus shelter allowing one route after another to pass you by, where the friends who said they'd be with you when the going got rough?

This is it, you realize, this is what happens now with every happy ending in every film fades to black and the credits roll and the unpronounceable names of people with mystery jobs scrolls to THE END.

The lights come up the theater is empty, the neighbors, the traffic, the screaming homeless men arise with you to seek another kind of sleep.

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CLAUDIA ARAGON Conglomeration

I am nothing more than a conglomeration

Miniscule‖bits‖and‖pieces‖of‖my‖life’s‖experience Gathered together Clinging one to another Held tightly with every ounce of strength I possess

Pieces of my relationships A collective of family, friends, loves. . . Long term, short term Blissful, heart wrenching, tragic If I look close enough I can see and examine the various jigsaw pieces of my life Understanding how they connect Tightly strung together A virtual mish mash of events and experiences Creating the picture that is me

Everything is there. . . When and how we met Becoming fast friends Fervent lovers Married partners Both super sensitive Easy to laugh Easy to cry

How your eyes light up and sparkle whenever you see me Drawing me in as though committing me to memory The divine sweetness of your tasty kisses The strength and warmth of your caress Are there for all eternity

My conglomeration has tattered remnants as well. . . Pieces of my relationships Lost moments 292

Harsh and unspoken words Lost parents, grandparents, friends and lovers

The times I was at odds Fighting. . . And not always fairly

The joys and sorrows of parenthood are there as well I love you. . . I hate you. . . Leave me alone. . . Mommy I need you Watching as my little fledgling grew Strengthening her wings All too soon she flew away To begin a solo life anew Starting a conglomeration of her own

Sections are held together with a multitude of tears Shed in joy, sorrow, anger All in the name of loss and love Or by a bevy of broken promises Broken hearts Broken dreams

Fragments of the exquisitely imperfect china that is us Chipped, marred, stained and scarred over time Polished and washed Carefully put away with loving tenderness To be used again and again Serving up love, laughter and life

I think of how my conglomeration has been dropped Watching as small pieces of me break and fall away Small fragmented portions I give of myself to others Hoping to become a part of their conglomeration Connected forever

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KOLE SCHULTZ

The screaming the yelling it‖will‖all‖stop‖when‖I’m‖big.

Sleeping in a van watching mom pass out from the needles this is what life will be like.

Teachers see the bruises but‖they‖don’t‖speak it must be normal.

I tried the bottles just like mom but fuck that taste.

Snickering kids pointing my way for smelling heinous.

Life is supposed to suck Life wants you miserable Life needs you to give up

Until I met a man in uniform who smiled at me maybe I can change this life in pursuit of something greater

294

WILL SANDVIK Giving up

Warmth, a burning passion. Kept me warm each night.

A fire uncontrolled. Eager to burn. Eager to love.

It wasn’t‖sustainable. I‖couldn’t‖feed‖it.‖ No amount of me fed‖the‖fire’s‖desire.‖

The fire turned. It’s‖once‖pleasant‖warmth‖ reversed to bitter chill.

The cold fire bright as ever burns for another.

I wonder. Does the fire warm him the way it warmed me?

295

DANIEL SCHMIDT

A gilded blindfold a world where china plates are full of fruit. water warm and cold, comes at the push of a button simple wants and desires quenched by simple means

Seasons pass a simple world. good and evil right and wrong anything possible with sweat and obedience

Dreams of flying, floating in the black void of space gazing upon Earth from above special education C's and B's. dreams drained with salty tears

Black hats rain from above Four years of frustration end

296

No college not smart enough all will be well take up a rifle and kill for the cloth with stars and stripes because We are good and They are bad.

But years pass no uniform familiar walls and windows become prison thoughts of murder turn inward cold steel pokes against flesh too dull. ‚you’re‖a‖failure‛

A job here and there driving home through blurred vision without a seatbelt Longing to crash

Yet through darkness reach warm, guiding hands beckoning to discover solace in science. unlock the beauty of literature sate pain with knowledge heal wounds with kindness

297

AIDEN Love, I'm Tired

I could get high on the neon lights, the dazzling eyes of the city. And dance on the street lines like a tightrope. I'm a beacon, I demand attention. I sing and sing on into the night until my throat grows raw, and worn, like the pavement everybody walks on where you knelt down next to me. You grasped my hand, rejuvenated my voice, and made yourself a part of my song. Just as the streetlights blurred, the music soared, my heart pounded, and you were always there, listening. A ghostly figure in the alleyway, illuminated by the patches of light. You showed me all of you. A shadow dancer on the subway street, who the light could never catch up to. I could never show you all of me. And now, above this metal empire, the sky burns brighter than ever. A collection of stars, moving as one, entranced by the song I gave them. Please dance on without me. I gave so much. I should be singing in triumph, but love, I'm tired.

298

BARBARA MOSQUEDA

My heart is heavy; It is hard to breathe. The memories of you are staring back at me. I try to not look back I start grinding my teeth. Oh, the desire to drown them in liquor. It only brings me to my knees.

I pick myself up. I feel a sudden breeze. This‖isn’t‖who‖I’m supposed to be.

I start again, these memories still staring back at me. Pleading, please.

Drown me.

I stare at the bottle It stares back at me. The devil on my shoulder asking, "Why‖aren’t‖you‖listening?"

Oh, I want to but‖I‖can’t.

My heart is heavy; It is hard to breathe but it is no longer you that is bringing me to my knees.

Alcoholism a disease.

299

BERNIE HERRON Fourth Creek Speak His Name

No dictator this time. Just a congress of silence. No songs or prayers. Just silence this time. Drums played by Baldwin. Upside down meter. Forrest of delusion. Optics at rest. A reverend on offense. Reduced to a dream. Orator with a clinched fist at a podium, park bench, under light post. Reverend on all angles, squares, and circles. A barred image at the gate. No, you cannot. No, you will not. So, in comes the force. Lock pickers and fence jumpers. Fueled by reconstruction and Congo Squares. Lyrics on that daytime railroad. Watching them watching her, while she watches the sky. All we want is water. It is a strange force. We want to be where they are even if they do not want us there. But we are here. Some give, some take. What is needed? All those needs course and pattern through you. All that taking weighs you down all that giving gives you wings. Some of them are flightless. Tied down by what they take. Laid bare. Why death? Why love? Where does it all go? You cannot bottle it or package it. But when you feel it you know it is real. Why dreams?‖ Baldwin‖ once‖ said,‖ ‚I‖ imagine‖ one‖ of‖ the‖ reasons‖ people cling to their hates so stubbornly is because they sense, once hate is gone, they will be forced to deal with pain.‛‖So,‖we‖run‖away‖or‖towards‖it. Some blindly with all they know at a spear point, face first head down but free.

300

AINA HABIB I Miss the Rainforest and the Waterfall and the Moss

I never jump. I dip my toes in slowly, let the chill of the freezing water echo throughout my body before slowly sinking. It's cold so cold compared to the warm humid air that hugs me. The river runs right through me the water green as the leaves and moss that surround it. The bellowing of the water hitting the rocks envelops my ears and I struggle to stay upright, my tiptoes graze the soft mud as the current pushes me. I give in to it and I float.

The sun leaking through the canopy burns my eyes, and it's warm so warm compared to the desert I live in now.

301

MARGE PIERCY Snake with its tail in its mouth

The world is uncoiling backward. First I was in the warm darkness of a womb. Then in a crib, room house, yard. Then in a red brick school. My world opened wide so many cities, homes, countries. So many friends and enemies. So many loves and marriages.

Friends have gone up in smoke or‖lie‖in‖soil‖like‖my‖cats’‖bones. I hobble along. Even my car died. How far do I travel now?

Pandemic‖isolation’s‖a‖metaphor for how my circles shrink and dim to end in a bed and a box, darkness giving borrowed molecules back.

302

CHRISTINA BROWN dive inhaling deep retaining this precious air i fill my lungs beyond the peaks feeling weightless for a moment until gravity grabs pulling down dropping like a rock closer and closer to the smooth surface of reflections until an abrupt appearance of a collision. . . drops of air drops of water grazing my skin suspending each hair glowing rays surrounding me fine lines of symmetry

303

ANNIE ARNOLD Mother's Autumn

Crunching leaves underfoot, crackling, burning wood, sprawling wheat fields beneath a full harvest moon and ever-changing constellations.

An aging mother gazes at her growing child. He flickers like a flame, his form brightening while folds begin to crease under her dimming eyes.

Whispering winds warning of winter cold. The mother holds her child, shielding his flame from the coming frost with her loving warmth.

304

ADRIÁN ARANCIBIA love in the time of rona #5 in the underground parking lot. we stand. wait, in line. different faces, from different places. here, at the county test, site. waiting as if for an amusement park ride. but‖there’s‖no‖amusement here. just nervous anticipation. just checks on whether your or someone's life is. at risk. no amusement, to isolation. we wait, and here, the faces do. as we all have done normalizing a pandemic. try to smile away the difficult year a mal tiempo buena cara dar is my amá's line. the human condition continued

305 three east african daughters giggle and juggle today and here. to their mother's worries next to the parking lot. two mexicana ladies nervously wonder if they can spend a holiday with family. and‖it’s‖so‖easy‖here. to forget. maybe, we are waiting in line for paying. at the grocery store. my friend, a great artist got it in the hospital a compadre contracted it early‖on‖from‖his‖wife’s zumba class. this‖ain’t‖livin but we try in our human way to piece together a moment outside. this thing. outside. our bubble. what does new zealand feel like, now? and i remember, we forgot the loose ends of the fabric. we forgot what was in front of us.

306 in front of us, in line. white folks, and asia, africa, latinoamérica and a middle aged white woman brings her elderly mother her mother, like my mother. who smiles even though the years are being taken from her, pats her daughter on the shoulder to remind her, it wasn't so bad. things my mother does. and, after, you‖don’t‖know‖what‖to‖say. good luck? i want to love like you? i want to see my family, too? things unkempt and ragged, on this thought of christmas in 2020

JOAN C. FINGON

small hands tossing pebbles getting older we forget

307

KASSANDRA TEJEDA I want to eat your skin like a whole almond watch canines carve crescent molds in the spurned meat of my thigh a faustian bargain: seals life-long ties to bad luck //your petty kisses, my trade for rapture/ /my sheepish dependence, your jubilation// nourishes me enough to feel almost human again

I refuse to forsake this unfeigned desire; //this molestation of my senses// to coil beneath you, to cry, to feed the salacious animal of my body. betrayed by a g*dless world, with acid for rain and no decent idols left to worship. only firewater with a slice of rind and a a touch of bitters that gnaws at the lining in my esophagus; purposely aggravates this demoralizing thirst

308

such craving alone could make even a sane person split at the gum line. full fractures in every tooth. blood escaping the roots. can it be a mutual obsession? thick with primal carnality your warm belly pinned to the small of my back

309

R. MONK Boyhood Raft

Why have I come what have I done a thorn in the side of an unhappy mother doomed by her own mother’s unhappiness

I tried to escape on a raft, I sensed there were oceans to cross my tiny wiener danced with joy in the mystery of New England woods why am I here it stood up and asked maybe it matters maybe it doesn’t

I saw a foreign land saw desert and revolution saw death while still a boy I understood only being alive was something I wanted a derelict boy wanting the world too much, wanting to devour everything without understanding driven by pure joy that was knocked down by what was called discipline toeing the mark being a good boy as defined by maternal wounds

310

why am I here an old man who understands nothing much more although it seems he is not alone even the unhappiness that consumed his mother has reasons and histories out of grasp as his brain turns to water knowing it will soon be dust the question still rattles the labyrinths of the mind why am I here the one who ran the tangled path beside a lake the boy who built a raft that dreamed of sailing oceans allowing breezes and winds to guide him as its own sweet joy.

311

CLAUDIA POQUOC The Bass Note Painting is music you can see, music is painting you can hear. — MILES DAVIS

I listen closely to the song sparrow perched high on its pampas grass pulpit. Am I a prime number, only divided by myself or the beat of numbers echoing forward through the mists of time? I breathe in patterns of sound – an outdoor symphony. Learn harmonics are ratios – a cathedral set in stone. Kandinsky's concert on canvas.

I share harmonies with the Hermit Thrush, the White-throated Sparrow, the Nightingale Wren nature's woodwinds that step through song syllables in a motif from beginning to end, their two sets of vocal cords allowing them to harmonize with themselves, the same bass note starting each sweet refrain.

312

SABRINA ESTEFANIA CORNEJO Mother Nature, Mother Earth

Mother Nature, Mother Earth She is made up to be many things She is green grass to yellow bumble bees She is blue skies to a sunny sunrise Oh Mother Nature, you make life so beautiful Walking through flower fields, oh so peaceful A pink tulip here and a red rose there Mnm, yummy such great smells in the clean air Now walking past the river I see lily pads, tadpoles and frogs colored silver Wow, silver frogs? They go ribbit ribbit Water dripping from the leaves just a tad bit Oh Mother Nature, you make life so beautiful My emotions are happy and grateful Thank you for land, the trees, the water You give us so many resources to live life Oh what a time to be alive Thank you, Mother Nature, Mother Earth

313

KAELA MAE ALISASIS Rushed to the Hospital

My bed, calling for me on my way home. Stopped by the sounds of screams and sirens, all a blur. People running left and right to help. Pieces of glass sticking onto my bloodied hand. My heart racing 100 miles an hour, trembling. The smell of gas filling up my nose. The car knocked over like a glass of water. Making my way to safety. My sisters and the driver following behind. Our hearts racing, our bodies trembling. My mother sprinting to the scene from two blocks away. Fearful yet loving tears rushing down our face. This time her heart racing, her body trembling.

DEBORAH P KOLODJI

coronavirus the moon takes over the sky

314

THE POETS

Dan Adams is a figurative artist and a poet in San Diego, and a regular contributor to the San Diego Poetry Annual. 70

(Emily Purtell) Aiden (they/them) is an English major, with a history of writing and a love of art. 298

Kaela Mae Alisasis 314

Susan Black Allen, a Licensed Marriage & Family Therapist, moved to Oceanside from Boston. 62

Janice Alper retired to San Diego. Her collection of poems is Words Bursting in Air. janicesjottings1.com 61

Marit Anderson hosts Awaken the Poet Within group at the Encinitas Library. A guest editor of the first Slam Poetry special section of the SDPA 2019-20, she practiced in the fields of Clinical Nutrition and Psychology. 75

Pat Andrus’s‖ third‖ collection‖ of‖ poems‖ is‖ Fragments of the Universe (Blue Vortex: 2019). A Goddard College MFA graduate, former instructor at Bellevue College and artist-in-residence for the state of Washington, she teaches Poetic Legacy workshops with Crystophver R. 58

Sandra Anfang is a writer, visual artist, and California Poets in the Schools teacher. Her books are Looking Glass Heart and Road Worrier (Finishing Line Press), and Xylem Highway (Main Street Rag, 2019). She founded and hosts Rivertown Poets in Petaluma. 15

Claudia Aragon lives in Escondido. Her poetry has appeared in Summation, Magee Parks Poetry Anthology, Ideagems, Tough Lit and Adventures for the Average Woman. Poems from her book, Call of the Ocean Muse, have appeared in Women’s Surf Style Magazine. 292

Adrián Arancibia is a Regional Editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual. 305

Carol Ireland Archibald is the author of Dancing with Words (Blue Vortex: 2019). She has studied with Carolyn Forsche and Steve Kowit. Her poems have appeared in San Diego Writer’s Monthly, San Diego Poetry Annual, Waymark, and a chapbook, Muse Poems. 60

Alan Archer is a lifelong resident of San Diego. He has studied graphic design, contributes art and comics to online sites, and writes poetry. 257

Annie Arnold studies at Miramar college pursuing an English degree. 304

315

Jan Beatty’s‖sixth‖book‖is‖The Body Wars (University of Pittsburgh Press: 2020). Her memoir, American Bastard (2021) won the Red Hen Nonfiction Award. Her poetry collection Jackknife: New and Selected Poems won the 2018 Paterson Prize. 12, 212 Charlie Berigan, a Chula Vista native, was Resident Musical Director/Composer for the Jean Cocteau Repertory (2000-2005). Since 2012, he has been active with The South Bay Scribes. 57

Bobbie Jean Bishop’s‖poems‖have appeared in small journals and several anthologies over the last 45 years. 56

R.J. Black, born in Mexico City, worked in the U.S. and Mexico for 30 years before retiring in Coronado. His poems and stories have appeared in various small press anthologies. 213

Malachi Black is the author of Storm Toward Morning (Copper Canyon: 2014), a 2019 NEA Creative Writing Fellow, and an associate professor at the University of San Diego since 2014. 228

Anthony Blacksher is the Publisher of the San Diego Poetry Annual. 226

Dionne Blaha’s‖third‖book,‖her‖debut‖collection‖of‖poetry,‖is‖Everything Is Beautiful at Least Once (2020). 55

Claire Blotter, a 2018 finalist for the Fischer Prize, represented San Francisco in National Poetry Slams. Author of three chapbooks, she teaches poetry to elementary school through university students. Her work has appeared in Rattle, Lilith, and Barnwood. 54

Stella Bolog, age 91, owned and operated two successful businesses. Portions‖of‖her‖memoirs‖have‖appeared‖in‖UCSD’s Active Voices. 53

Laura Boss is a first prize winner of PSA's Gordon Barber Poetry Contest, the recipient of three NJSCA Fellowships, and Founder and Editor of Lips whose poems have appeared in The New York Times. Her most recent poetry collection is The Best Lover (NYQ: 2017). 210

Kelly Bowen is a musician and UC-Berkley alumna. Performances at VAMP led to publications in 2020 of a piece in So Say We All’s‖anthology‖ and Poet’s Underground. Kellybowenarts.com 52

LoVerne Brown worked in the San Diego City administrative staff and at night wrote and taught poetry at The Ocean Beach Community School, which she co-founded.‖ Called‖ ‚the‖ literary‖ matriarch‛‖ of‖ San‖ Diego,‖ her‖ The Garment for a Long Journey: The Collected Poems of LoVerne Brown was published posthumously. 196

Christina Brown 303

316

Susan Browne lives in Chico. Her third collection, Just Living, won the Catamaran Poetry Prize, 2019. Her work has appeared in Ploughshares, The Sun, The Southern Review, and Rattle. susanbrownepoems.com 124, 126

Ken Buhr has lived and practiced as a Marriage and Family Therapist for more than 40 years in North County Inland. 209 Detroit-born Ted Burke has lived in San Diego since 1969, working as a music journalist and arts critic, carnival worker, warehouse manager, and blues musician. With work in The Reader, The Door, Revolt in Style, he writes for The San Diego Troubadour. 290

Evelyn Burroughs has lived in North County for 20 years. Her poems have appeared in A Year in Ink, Tidepools, and A Garden of Black Joy. 244

Tim Calaway lives in San Diego. He writes poetry, novels, short fiction and commentary. His work has appeared in A Year in Ink. 95

Melissa Mencke Campbell is a teacher, mother, sister, aunt, wife, and dog owner. 231

Conner Cash, from the Rincon Reservation, attends the All Tribes Charter School. 162

Brandon Cesmat is a Regional Editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual. 66, 194

Donald Clermont earned a BA in French Literature and a Master of Public Health from Tufts University. He works as a public health researcher at UC- San‖Diego’s‖School‖of‖Medicine‖and‖lives‖in‖Joshua‖Tree. 128

Sabrina Estefania Cornejo is a teenage poet living in San Diego. 313

Craig Cotter’s‖ work‖ has‖ appeared‖ in‖ Caliban Online, California Quarterly, Chiron Review, Columbia Poetry Review, and Tampa Review. His fourth book of poems, After Lunch with Frank O'Hara (Chelsea Station Editions) was a finalist for the National Poetry Series in 2011. craigcotter.com 84

Jeeni Criscenzo lives in Linda Vista. She started Outspoken Creative Crones, a group of mature, activist women poets. Her poems have appeared in Bards Against Hunger – San Diego, Extreme Anthology, and Sunshine/Noir II. 72

Catherynne Cruz-Scheckner 208

Catherine Darby has had work in The Muse Strikes Back: A Poetic Response by Women to Men, The Coachella Review, Long Island Quarterly, and A Year in Ink. She served as an editor for Vox Populi Anthology/Seattle, and The Coachella Review. 51

317

Marcyn De Clements has had work in Alaska Quarterly Review, Appalachia, Flyway, frogpond, Hollins Critic, Literary Review, Lyric, and Snowy Egret. She converted her swimming pool into a pond, to swim with her koi. 32

Mary De La Fuente, now working as a copywriter in New York, earned an MFA from Binghamton University in 2018. Her work has appeared in the The Carousel Issue 61, Art Ascent & Literature Journal Issue 33, and the San Diego Poetry Annual. 207

D’ellen was conceived on the San Diego 32nd Street Naval Base and grew up in Pasadena, West Covina, and Glendora. 7, 99, 203

Ahlia Demas identifies as Senior Hispanic Female on Disability for Mental Health Due to Trauma from Domestic Violence, having witnessed their husband’s‖ suicide‖ in‖ 2012.‖ She‖ published‖ two‖ chap‖ books‖ in‖ 1998,‖ and‖ a‖ book of poetry, Stained Sheets, in 2018. 246

Casey Derengowski has been a teacher and a probation officer. He has had work in Poets INC (Inland North County) Summation editions. 288

Kathy Lundy Derengowski’s‖work‖has‖appeared‖in‖Summation, California Quarterly, Silver Birch Press, Turtle Light Press and the Journal of Modern Poetry. With awards from the California State Poetry Society, she was a finalist in the San Diego book Awards (poetry chapbook). 283

Marrianne Diaz, from the Agua Caliente Reservation, attends the All Tribes Charter School. 165

William Diaz, from the Agua Caliente Reservation, attends the All Tribes Charter School. 166, 167

Trish Dugger’s‖poetry‖has‖appeared‖in‖ SD Writers Ink, Border Voices, and Magee Park Poets anthologies, in California Quarterly, Spillway, and Hayden’s Ferry Review. Her poem, Spare Parts, was selected for American Life in Poetry. Her poetry collection is Scrambled (Garden Oak Press: 2012). 50

Dick Eiden is a two-time finalist for The Kowit. His memoir is Paying the Rent: Adventures of a Left Coast Activist Lawyer from the Turbulent '60s to the era of Donald Trump (Lymer & Hart: 2019). 129, 130, 206

James Ellenberger was born and raised in Chicora, a small town in western Pennsylvania. His work has appeared in River Teeth, Sou’Wester, New South, Hayden’s Ferry Review, and Passages North. He was awarded an Ohio Arts Council Individual Excellence Award in 2020. 132

Alexis Rhone Fancher is a multiple Pushcart Prize nominee and poetry editor of Cultural Weekly. Her work has appeared in Best American Poetry, Rattle, Diode, Slipstream, and Verse Daily. Her new collection is The Dead Kid Poems, (KYSO Flash Press: 2019). alexisrhonefancher.com 134

318

Ignatius Fay, a disabled invertebrate paleontologist, edits the Haiku Society of America Bulletin. He lives Canada. His collection, in collaboration with Irene Golas, is Breccia (2012). 32

Leslie Ferguson earned an MFA in Creative Writing from Chapman University. Her work has appeared in fws: journal of literature and art, Coffin Bell, and Tiny Spoon. MentallyWellish.com 204

Joan C. Fingon, lives in Ventura. A professor of education and a member of the Southern California Haiku Study Group, her work has appeared in frogpond and Haiku Journal. 43, 67, 307

Fran Finley is a retired teacher and counselor, and a member Gypsy Poets. Her work has appeared in Magee Park Poets Anthology. 242

Author of Everyday Sublime (Garden Oak Press: 2018), Daniel H.R. Fishman is a California writer and teacher. He served on the judging panel for the first two editions of the San Diego Poetry Annual. 49

Nancy Foley’s‖work‖has‖appeared‖in‖A Year in Ink, San Diego Union Tribune, San Diego Reader, Summation anthologies, and Fruits and Fig Leaves. A graduate of University of Dayton, she resides in North Pacific Beach. 286

Janet Foster studied literature at Scripps College, French literature at La Sorbonne, and earned an MA from The New School University. Her poetry has appeared in A Year in Ink, Enhance magazine, the San Diego Poetry Annual, and New Millennium Writings. 202

Annette Friend was born in New Jersey and lives in Del Mar. A retired occupational therapist and teacher, she has had work in Tidepools, Summation, California Quarterly and The Jewish Writing Project. She attends Awaken the Poet Within and Poets INC events. 284

Bil Fuhrer grew up in central Pennsylvania, graduated from Penn State in Electrical Engineering and moved to California to thaw out. 96

Diane Funston, living in Marysville, is the 2020-2021 Poet-in-Residence for Yuba Sutter Arts and Culture. She formed a poetry group in Tehachapi and holds a degree in Literature and Writing from CSU-San Marcos. 282

Roger Funston moved to the Sacramento Valley where he enjoys walking in the Sierra Nevada Mountains, volunteering with environmental non- profits, poetry readings, and live music. 281

William Scott Galasso is the author of 16 books of poetry, including Rough Cut: Thirty Years of Senryu (2019). Legacy: Thirty Years of Haiku, was published in 2020 (Galwin Press). 4

Diane Gage is a poet and artist in San Diego whose poems have appeared in publications from Hawai'i Review to Rattapallax. 48 bluevortextpublishers.wordpress.com/art

319

Tomás Gayton is a Seattle-native and grandson of African-American pioneers of Washington State. A retired Civil Rights attorney and co- founder of San Diego Poet's Press, he remains a human rights activist, poet and essayist. His memoir is Long Journey Home (Sambajia: 2012). 221

Numertha Geisinger is persuing an MA in English at Queen Mary University of London and working as an ESL teacher. Her work has appeared in Channel Magazine, and Breadwinner Magazine. She earned the Lowell Grabill Brett Foster Prize for Poetry. 135

Joan Gerstein, a retired educator and psychotherapist, co-edits the Veterans special section of the San Diego Poetry Annual, and leads its community outreach through workshops for veterans in jail. 280

David Gilder, a psychiatrist recently retired from practice at Scripps Clinic, continues to work part-time in a neuroscience research group at The Scripps Research Institute. 86

Maria Mazziotti Gillan, an American Book Award-winning poet, is the founding Editor of Paterson Literary Review. mariagillan.com 110, 200

Estelle Gilson is a poet, writer and award-winning translator who hosts an annual poetry reading at Vi at La Jolla Village. Her collection of poems and short fiction is Foundlings and Other Misfits (Garden Oak Press: 2020). 109

Mai-Lon Gittelsohn teaches memoir writing to seniors in Del Mar. She earned an MFA from Oregon’s‖ Pacific‖ University.‖ Her‖ chapbook‖ is‖ Chop Suey and Apple Pie (Finishing Line Press: 2014). 136

Terri Glass has authored three books of poetry, most recently Being Animal (Kelsay Books). Her work has appeared in Young Raven’s Literary Review, About Place, California Quarterly and anthologies. She is the former director of California Poets in the Schools. 47

Rachel Gobar heard her father read Hafiz, Rumi, Edgar Allen Poe, and Les Misérable to her in Afghanistan. Her family fled during the Russian invasion. She grew up in New York City, attending NYU. 248

Jonathan Greenhause was shortlisted for the 2019 Mick Imlah Poetry Prize and‖The‖Black‖Spring‖Press‖Group’s‖2020‖Sexton‖Prize‖for‖Poetry.‖His‖work‖ has appeared in Contemporary Verse 2 and Notre Dame Review. 137

Diana Griggs, a transplant from England, has found comfort in writing during these difficult times. Her work has appeared in Writers Ink and Magee Park poets. 46

Harry Griswold debuted in Rochester, NY. Twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize, he runs the Pleasures of Poetry workshop. His poetry books include Just Enough Clothes (Garden Oak Press: 2014). 120

320

Aina Habib is studying anthropology. Her work is inspired by her life growing up as a biracial woman with a mental illness. 301

Debbie Hall is the author of What Light I Have (Main Street Rag: 2018) and a chapbook, Falling into the River (The Poetry Box:) 2020. She received an honorable mention in The Kowit 2016 and second place in the 2018 Poetry Super Highway Contest. 92

Jill G. Hall writes novels about women trying to find their place in the world, connected by vintage finds. jillghall.com 219

Robert Halleck is a Del Mar-based poet. He is a member of San Diego's Not Dead Yet Poets. 76

William Harry Harding founded the San Diego Poetry Annual. 279

Mary Harker graduated UC-Berkeley and holds an MA from SDSU. Babe, a book of poems in short story form, was published in Arizona Literary Magazine. She has taught poetry workshops at Oasis for over 20 years. 45

Charles Harmon taught sciences in Los Angeles schools. He spent five years overseas in 67 countries. His son attends UCSD. 42

Kathy Harmon-Luber won the 7th Annual Ross Andrews Poetry Contest (2020). A fine-art photographer, she is the Art Alliance of Idyllwild Artist of the Year. KathyHarmonLuber.com 44

Molly Hart is a sophomore at the University of Michigan pursuing a double-major in English and Women's Studies. 138

Valarie Hastings, a finalist in the Ginsberg Prize 2020, earned The Kowit 2020. Her work has appeared in the San Diego Poetry Annual, The New Guard, Paterson Literary Review, Literary Mama, Marin Poetry Center Anthology, and Crab Creek Review. She lives in the San Francisco Bay Area. 108, 116, 140, 142

Leslie Hendrickson-Baral, a neurotherapist, performance enhancement specialist and cognition coach, has had work in Falling Star, Carbon Culture Review, Magee Park Poets, and Please See Me Literary Journal. 278

Gwyn Henry lives in San Diego, working in written-word poetry, essay, and fiction, as well as original art, interpretive photography, video poems, and digital art. 276

Juan Felipe Herrera is the former Poet Laureate of the United States. 107

Bernie Herron founded Word Cooperative, studied at SDSU and attended University City High School in San Diego. He lives in Washington, D.C. 300

321

Terry Hertzler’s‖ Caernarvon‖ Press‖ published‖ a‖ broadside‖ of‖ Two Dog Lovers Share a Bus Seat and the chapbook The Rapist’s Child by LoVerne Brown.‖ Hertzler’s‖ own‖ books‖ were‖ The Way of the Snake and Second Skin. Editor of The No-Street Poet’s Voice, Hertzler chronicled San Diego in the 80s & 90s. 197

Lloyd Hill is a longtime Ocean Beach poet and Pier Poets facilitator whose work has appeared in Serving House Journal, CityBeat, Alabaster & Mercury, and Fruits & Fig Leaves. 80

Michael Hill's poems have appeared in Midwestern Gothic, Concho River Review, Tilde, Stonecrop, Pomme Journal, and Soundings East. 64

Ameerah Holliday is the Editorial Director of the San Diego Poetry Annual and the Assistant Editor of the Kids! San Diego Poetry Annual. 41

Pam Impson grew up in San Diego and lives in El Cajon. 82

James Croal Jackson is a Filipino-American poet. His chapbook is The Frayed Edge of Memory (Writing Knights Press: 2017). He edits The Mantle Poetry and works in film production. jamescroaljackson.com 85

Jimmy Jazz is a San Diego writer. 223

Curran Jeffery, born in Chicago, has spent a lifetime studying history and making poems in Chicago, Fayetteville, Albuquerque, and San Diego. 87

Lois P. Jones has earned three awards, including the Bristol Poetry Prize. Her first collection is Night Ladder (2017). Her work has appeared in Plume, Guernica Editions, New Voices: Contemporary Writers Confronting the Holocaust, and Tupelo Quarterly. 39

Wendy Jones is a San Diego-based writer and life coach. Life1Point0.com 38

Jim Kacian is founder and director of The Haiku Foundation, founder and owner of Red Moon Press, editor-in-chief of Haiku in English: The First Hundred Years, and author of more than 20 books of poetry, primarily haiku. He lives in Virginia. 37

Gloria Keeley is a graduate of San Francisco State University with a MA in Creative Writing. Her work has appeared in Spoon River Poetry Review, The Emerson Review, Mosaic, and Bacopa. 271

Karen Kenyon, professor emeritus (Mira Costa College), teaches writing at UCSD-X and for San Diego Writers Ink. Her books include The Brontë Family/Passionate Literary Geniuses and Charles Dickens/Compassion and Contradiction. 106

Kathy Keogh is a poet and songwriter. 274

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Clifton King is a widely published poet and self-proclaimed beach bum. He is retired, living in Carlsbad. 36

Brian Kirven, author of Shorelines: A Traveler Comes Home to the Tide Zone, teaches as a California Poet in the Schools, from elementary grades to juvenile hall. His work has appeared in The Kerf, California Quarterly, Inverness Almanac, and West Marin Review. 34

Michael Klam is the Executive Editor of San Diego Poetry Annual. 218

Tracey Knapp lives in Berkeley. Her work has appeared in Best New Poets, Poetry Daily, Five Points, and The New Ohio Review. 143

Deborah P Kolodji is the former moderator of the Southern California Haiku Study Group, California Regional Coordinator for the Haiku Society of America, and a member of Haiku San Diego. Her book, highway of sleeping towns, won a Touchstone Distinguished Book Award from the Haiku Foundation. 35, 105, 314

Maria Kotsaftis, born in Munich, holds a PhD in Comparative Literature and has lectured in foreign languages. 272

Lewis Kruglick, a life-long poet, is a retired MD and English instructor at CSU-Northridge. The author of two books of poetry, he lives in a nursing home in Poway. 78

Sharon Laabs taught music in the public schools and retired from the Birch Aquarium at Scripps in group sales. Her poetry has appeared in the San Diego Poetry Annual and Oasis Journal. 33

Jen Laffler’s‖poetry‖has‖been‖featured‖in‖the‖Kids Cast Weekly podcast and at the San Diego Writers Festival. She created the KidsWrite! San Diego Children’s‖Writing‖Contest.‖‖‖jenlaffler.com kidswrite.com 31

Toni Larson, born and raised in Louisiana, retired from a career in the hotel and restaurant business to explore the USA in an RV. 30

Ron Lauderbach, a retired high school English and journalism teacher, earned an MFA in poetry at SDSU late in life. 81

Sylvia Levinson’s‖writing‖life‖began‖in‖the‖1990s,‖when‖she‖worked‖at‖The‖ Old Globe Theatre. Her books include Spoon, (Finishing Line Press: 2013). Her poetry has appeared in City Works, A Year in Ink, Magee Park, Ekphrasis, and Serving House Journal. 29

Lenny Lianne has written four books of poetry, including The ABC’s of Memory (Unicorn Bay Press). She holds an MFA from George Mason University and has taught workshops on both coasts. 270

Gregory Longenecker has twice won the H. Gene Murtha Annual Senryu Contest‖and,‖in‖2019,‖received‖The‖Haiku‖Foundation’s‖highest honor a Touchstone Award. 59, 79, 201

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Fred Longworth has had work published in numerous journals, including Able Muse, Comstock Review, Pearl, Spillway and California Quarterly. 28

Robert Thomas Lundy is a retired demographer, epidemiologist, and software engineer. His poetry has been published in Analog Science Fiction and the Atlanta Review. He co-edited the Summation series of ekphrastic poetry for several years. 234

Terry Macrae is a Navy veteran, retired software engineer, and a hospice volunteer. His work has appeared in the San Diego Poetry Annual, Southern California Haiku Study Group anthology, Failed Haiku, and Tanka Journal. 233

Katie Manning , founder of Whale Road Review, is a professor of writing at Point Loma Nazarene University. She is the author of Tasty Other (Main Street Rag Poetry Book Award: 2016). Her fifth chapbook is 28,065 Nights (River Glass Books: 2020). katiemanningpoet.com 93

Sarah B Marsh-Rebelo holds an MFA. in Creative Writing. Her first book of poetry is Over My Shoulder. Her work has appeared in Avocet, California Anthology of Poets, San Diego Review, Foundation for Women Celebration, and Anthology of Creative Writing SDSU. 27

Seretta Martin is the Managing Editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual. 104

Jose Jorge Martinez graduated UCSD with a BA in Literature/Writing. His work has appeared in The Poetry Conspiracy, The Warren College Literary-Arts Journal, Bards Against Hunger Anthology, and F**k Isolation Anthology. 251

Richard L Matta’s‖poems‖have‖appeared‖in‖Dewdrop and Little Old Ladies. 63

Amanda Leigh Mattimoe earned the Steve Kowit Poetry Prize in 2018. In 2019, she published a collection of romantic poetry to accompany her romance novels. 94

Margaret McAllister has had careers as a copywriter, scriptwriter, creative director and marketing executive. 26

Jennifer McBroom is an SDSU dropout now living in Wildomar. Her work has appeared in national and local anthologies. 83

Steve McDonald, a two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, has published two books of poetry Credo (finalist, 2016 Brick Road Poetry) and House of Mirrors (Tebot Bach: 2013) and two chapbooks, including Golden Fish/Dark Pond (2014 Comstock Chapbook award). 25, 144

Melissa McKinstry lives in San Diego and curates a Poet Tree for neighbors while pursuing an MFA at Pacific University. He work has appeared in The Seattle Review. 148

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Joseph D. Milosch is a Hackney Award for Literature honoree and Pushcart Prize nominee, and author of The Lost Pilgrimage Poems and Landscape of a Hummingbird. His work has appeared in the California Quarterly. 146, 238 minerva (Gail Hawkins) was a Poet- in-Residence with the Maryland State Arts Council and an original member of the Border Voices Poetry Project. She lived in San Diego for 23 years, passing away in December, 2020. 65

Carolyn Mogavero teaches poetry in the mental health community. 245

R. Monk is a Los Angeles-based filmmaker and writer whose latest book is Waltzing under the Buddha's Smile (Garden Oak Press: 2012). 310 Jim Moreno is a Regional Editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual. 216

Karla Morton is a former Texas Poet Laureate. Her twelfth book is The National Parks: A Century of Grace (TCU Press: 2020). She earned a National Heritage Wrangler Award and an Indie National Book Award. 122

Barbara Mosqueda studies at Miramar College, majoring in both English and Psychology. 299

Jay M. Mower, a retired marketing executive, advertising professor and management consultant, lives in San Diego. With three chapbooks, his first poetry collection is Poet in a Pin-stripe Suit (Garden Oak Press: 2020). 240

Jane Muschenetz immigrated from Ukraine at age 10. She graduated UCSD and MIT graduate school. palfrondzoo.com 264

Gerardo Navarro 229

Chris Ernest Nelson, a resident of San Diego and a graduate of SDSU, was a high school history and art teacher. His history of the 1939 election contest over food-stamps for the elderly, The Battle for Ham and Eggs, appeared in the Journal of San Diego History (1992). He was named Author of the Month (November, 2018) of the San Diego Public Library for his book Harvest. 22

JohnnieRenee Nia Nelson, aka the Kwanzaa Poet, is a San Diego-based poet and playwright who is a lover of words and community. She has written five volumes of poetry and two plays and is a Poet-Teacher with CALPOETS and the Border Voices Project. 24

Terri Niccum's new chapbook is Dead Letter Box (Moon Tide Press). Her work has appeared in The Maine Review, Oberon Poetry, Golden Streetcar; and in the anthology Making Up (Picture Book Press). 118

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Mary O'Connor’s‖ poems‖ and‖ short‖ stories‖ have‖ appeared‖ in‖ Metre, America, Columbia, Jacaranda Review, BriarCliff Review, Caesura, and other journals, and her essays in several scholarly collections. She was a finalist in the 2017 Kowit Poetry Prize. 249

Suzanne O’Connell’s‖ recently‖ published‖ work‖ can‖ be‖ found‖ in‖ North American Review, Poet Lore, The Menacing Hedge, Steam Ticket, Typishly, and Forge. Twice nominated for a Pushcart Prize, she earned Honorable Mention in The Kowit 2019. Her poetry collections are A Prayer for Torn Stockings and What Luck, both from Garden Oak Press. 268

Kathy O’Fallon, the oldest of five girls and four boys, mother of two, and grandmother‖ of‖ five,‖ O’Fallon,‖ when‖ she’s‖ not‖ wearing‖ her‖ psychologist‖ hat,‖hammocks‖on‖a‖gentle‖person’s‖farm,‖writing‖about‖the‖experience‖of‖ relationships to people, the universe, and nature. 23

Gayle O’Key lives in Rancho Bernardo, trying to stay relatively sane and centered, still healthy, still missing sharing space with her fellow poets as COVID-19 marches on. Her work has appeared in Escondido Arts “Summation” anthologies and Dear Mr. President. 275

Esperanza Ortega, from the Torres Martinez Reservation, attends the All Tribes Charter School. 166

Lorraine A. Padden has published haiku poetry across 14 journals and anthologies. She received a Ford Foundation scholarship and an appointment to the National Endowment for the Arts. 17, 74, 215

Andy Palasciano co-hosts the monthly Broken Anchor Poetry event. His poems have appeared in the San Diego Poetry Annual and The Penwood Review. His memoir is The Warrior: The Tales of a Substitute Teacher and Job Coach (Lymer & Hart: 2019). 103

Janessa Parada from the Rincon Reservation, attends the All Tribes Charter School. 162

Tarah Parada from the Rincon Reservation, attends the All Tribes Charter School. 164

Born into a Navy family Susie Parker has ping-ponged between California, Hawaii, and Florida and back. 247

Darrel Peralta from the Pala Reservation, attends the All Tribes Charter School. 162

Penny Perry is a nine-time Pushcart Prize nominee and the author of the novel Selling Pencils and Charlie (Lymer & Hart: 2020) and a poetry collection, Santa Monica Disposal and Salvage (Garden Oak Press: 2012). 266

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Marjorie Pezzoli is a visual artist & writer. Her artwork & observations inspires her poetry. Works included in Palabra: Open Mic, and Fuck Isolation, Tribute to the COVID-19 Experience. Pezzoliart.com 237

Marge Piercy's new collection is On the Way Out, Turn Off the Lights (Knopf: 2020). 102, 302

Claudia Poquoc, singer-songwriter and known in classrooms as Grandmother Spider of the Word Wise Web, edited Stunned into Awakening. She leads workshops for the Kids! San Diego Poetry Annual. 312

Gary V. Powell's chapbook, Super Blood Wolf Moon, won Kallisto Gaia Press’s‖ 2020‖ Contemporary‖ Poetry‖ Prize.‖ His‖ fiction‖ has‖ appeared‖ in‖ the‖ Thomas Wolfe Review, Carvezine, Smokelong Quarterly, and Best New Writing 2015. His first novel is Lucky Bastard (Main Street Rag: 2012). Publishing (2012). 150

Grant Quackenbush is from Encinitas. He received his MFA from Boston University and his BA from UC-Santa Cruz. He currently lives in Lower Manhattan. 253

Crystophver R, a native San Diegan, award winning actor, writer, director, producer of theatre, film, video and photography. He is also a founding member of The Mightier P.E.N.S. (Poetic Expeditionary Nation of Semanticists). His book of poetry is Intellectual Suicide, Poetry To Die For (Garden Oak Press: 2019). 256

Lisa Albright Ratnavira earned an MA from Concordia University. Her books include Maiden, Mother and Crone and Traveling with Pen and Brush. Her poetry collection is Grief’s Labyrinth and Other Poems (Garden Oak Press: 2017). Her work appeared in Border Voices and Knot Journal. 265

Arien Reed holds an MFA from National University. He cofounded and chairs the LGBTQ Allied Association at Fresno City College. His chapbook is The End (Roaring Junior Press). His work has appeared in Florida Review, Oberon, Sonora Review, and Red Wheelbarrow. 154

Judy Reeves has authored four books, including A Writer’s Book of Days. She has taught at UCSD Extension and at San Diego Writers, Ink, and co- founded The Writing Center. Her books include Wild Women, Wild Voices. She served as judge of The Kowit 2019. 71

Kaitlin Reynolds graduated Rollins College and lives in Orlando, where she has been a prekindergarten teacher for the last decade. 152

Native Californian Lynda Riese, is a Pushcart and Best of the Net nominee, lives in Scripps Ranch. Her work has appeared in Calyx, Onthebus Poet Lore, and Best of Border Voices. 21

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Marte Riley is a poet, singer, and social justice activist. She holds a music degree from the University of Redlands and lives in Vista. 236

Willow Robinson, from the San Pascual Reservation, attends the All Tribes Charter School. 160

Susan Rogers is a practitioner of Sukyo Mahikari. Her poetry has appeared in Altadena Poetry Review, California Quarterly, Kyoto Journal, Pirene’s Fountain, Saint Julian’s Press, Tiferet. A two-time Pushcart Prize nominee, she co-edited A Sonic Boom of Stars, a haiku anthology. 20

Ibrahim Ibn Salma is a poet and writer. 40

Ron Salisbury, the inaugural Poet Laureate of San Diego (2020-2021), is a Regional Editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual. 88

Anna Sanchez is a mother, non-traditional student at Southwestern College, founder of M.A.M.S. a support group for woman. She coordinates Puente Drum Circle for SWC English Professor Francisco J. Bustos. 19

Christian Sanchez is a non-traditional student and writer at Southwestern College who has performed his poetry at the Puente Drum Circle. His work has appeared in Vagabond. 68

Nancy Sandweiss is a retired medical social worker and a long-time member‖of‖Mary‖Harker’s‖Oasis‖poetry‖class.‖Her‖poems‖have‖appeared‖in‖ Oasis Journal and A Year in Ink. Her collection of poems is Love Remains. Her book‖of‖children’s‖stories‖is‖Adventures with Kevin. 15

Sally Sandler is a graduate of the University of Michigan and lives in Del Mar. 18, 214

Will Sandvik 295

Bona M. Santos is a member of the Southern California Haiku Study Group, Yuki Teikei Haiku Society and Haiku Society of America. 7, 205

Daniel Schmidt hopes to travel the United States as well as more of the world once they receive their degree in Biochemistry. 296

Sonya Schneider, born and raised in San Diego, lives in Seattle. Her plays have been produced in Seattle and San Juan Island, and her writing has appeared in Stanford Magazine. 14

Don Schofield lives in Greece. His recent poetry collections are In Lands Imagination Favors (Dos Madres Press: 2014) and The Flow of Wonder (Kelsay Books: 2018). 254

Kristen D. Scott edits the online Knot Literary Journal. Her poetry collections are Liaisons and Opiate, both from Garden Oak Press. 250

Kole Schultz 294

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Nancy Shiffrin has authored several books, including two collections of poetry: Game With Variations and The Vast Unknowing. 100

Kim Shuck is the Poet Laureate of San Francisco and the author of one chapbook of poems and seven books. Her latest is Whose Water (Mammoth Publications). 168

Sarah Z Sleeper is an award-winning ex-journalist. Her debut novel is Following Owen Ota (2020). Her work has appeared in The Shanghai Literary Review, the San Diego Poetry Annual, and Painters & Poets. Her art has been exhibited at the Bellarmine Museum. 13

Allison Smith 285

Walt Stepahin has lived in San Diego for 40 years. His work has appeared in Oasis Journal. 11

Janell Strube lives and works in San Juan Capistrano, writing poetry, memoir, and a first novel. 241

Liz Szymanski studies Neuroscience and Creative Writing at Oberlin College and calls San Diego home. Her poetry has appeared in the San Diego Poetry Annual. 289

Paul Szymanski lives, works, and raises a family in San Diego. His poetry has appeared in the San Diego Poetry Annual. 98

Jean E. Taddonio, native San Diegan, and retired hospice nurse, holds a BSN degree from SDSU. A member of the SDCC Writers Workshop, her poetry and short stories appear in four anthologies and in several journals. She has published a children’s‖ picture‖ story‖ book,‖ The Tale of R-Qu. 263

Mel Takahara is the author of The Waiting Child (Garden Oak Press: 2019). His poems have appeared in Magee Park Poets, Poetry Northwest, Cimarron Review, World Poet, Hawaii Review, Kapa, and Poetry Hawaii. 262

Kassandra Tejeda is an intern from San Diego State University for the San Diego Poetry Annual. 308

Sharon L. Thompson, a graduate of CSU-Dominguez Hills, is a retired high school English teacher who facilitates a poetry critique group in Temecula. Her work has appeared the San Diego Poetry Annual. 261

Michael Turner is from the Mexica, Mayan, Raramuri Foot Runner Clan. 159, 235

Maja Trochimczyk, PhD, is a Polish-American poet, historian, and photographer. With multiple books of music and poetry, and as editor of poetry anthologies, she is the founder of Moonrise Press and serves as President of California State Poetry Society. moonrisepress.com 10

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Ann Tweedy's first book, The Body's Alphabet (Headmistress Press). earned a Bisexual Book Award and was a finalist for a Lambda Literary Award. anntweedy.com 9

Chris Vannoy, former National Beat Poet Laureate, led the Red Poets Society group and is a multiple winner of the San Diego Book Award. 220

Lizzie Wann's first collection of poetry is The Hospice Bubble & Other Devastating Affirmations (Puna Press: 2019). 259

Hilary Walling, born in California, has lived in San Diego for 48 years. She attends a local Community College creative writing class. 260

JK Wallen, originally from New York City, lives in Solana Beach writing poems and creating art. 232

Lori Walkington, PhD., is a professor of critical race studies and criminology at CSU-San Marcos. 222

Susan D. Walter is‖a‖member‖of‖Chula‖Vista’s‖South‖Bay‖Scribes,‖meeting‖ during the pandemic under her 130-year-old Podocarpus tree. 6

Jon Wesick is a Regional Editor of the San Diego Poetry Annual. 252

Chris Whitney enjoys traveling California's Highway 395 and derives inspiration from gardening and the San Diego coastline. 77

C. V. Will resides near San Diego. A past coordinator of the Magee Park Poets' Workshop series, Will's work has appeared in Driftwood Highway Anthologies and the Magee Park Poets Anthologies. 258

Elizabeth Yahn Williams authors a bilingual Ekphrastic series of art books, HAIKU for an Artist. She was recognized by Who’s Who for lifetime achievements in writing and law. HitherandYahn.com 8

Patricia Aya Williams is a former flight attendant and retired public librarian. Her poems have appeared in San Diego Poetry Annual and City Works Literary Journal. As a visual artist, she creates iPhoneography and collage pieces. 149 Kath Abela Wilson leads a study and performance group, Poets on Site, in Pasadena. Her book is Figures of Humor and Strange Beauty (Glass Lyre Press: 2019). She performs poetry accompanied on world flutes by her mathematician husband, Rick Wilson. 5

Tanaya Winder is the Director of the University of Colorado Boulder's Upward Bound program and co-founder of Sing Our Rivers Red's MMIW earring exhibit. She is an enrolled citizen of the Duckwater Shoshone Nations. 158, 163

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Jonathan Yungkans is a Los Angeles-based writer and photographer. His chapbook, Beneath a Glazed Shimmer, won the Clockwise Chapbook Prize and will be released by Tebor Bach Publishing in 2020. 91

Anna Jenkins Zappoli is an artist/writer born in Sicily, living in San Diego. Her poetry collection is From Somewhere Else (Puna Press: 2017). 69

Al Zolynas taught at the United States International University. A San Diego Book Award winner (1994), his new collection is Near and Far (Garden Oak Press: 2019). 97

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INTERNS AT SAN DIEGO STATE UNIVERSITY

Kassandra “KC” Tejeda is a first-year student at SDSU pursuing a BA in English and Sociology. Born and raised in San Jose, she enjoys working with people through dance, music, and poetry.

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Special thanks to Clare Colquitt, Director of Undergraduate Studies and Associate Professor of English at SDSU.

A permanent debt of gratitude to Jennifer Minniti-Shippey, professor and former editor of Poetry International, for establishing and coordinating the Interns at SDSU for the San Diego Poetry Annual.

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REGIONAL EDITORS

Born in Iquique, Chile, Adrián Arancibia co-edited the Taco Shop Poets Anthology: Chorizo Tonguefire and authored Atacama Poems and The Keeper/El guardador. His forthcoming book is Poems of Exhaustion. He teaches English and Creative Writing at Miramar College.

Brandon Cesmat has earned San Diego Press Club awards for film criticism and San Diego Book Awards for Ice Drum, Light in All Directions, and Driven into the Shade. His CD of original songs adapted from his books is Califor-Noir. He teaches literature & writing at CSU-San Marcos. Karla Cordero, a descendant of the Chichimeca people of northern Mexico, is a VONA, Macondo, CantoMundo, The Loft Literary Center, and Pink Door fellow. Her book, How to Pull Apart the Earth (Not A Cult: 2018), won the San Diego Book Award (2019). Jim Moreno has served as the Poet-In-Residence for the Juvenile Court & Community Schools since August of 2005, teaching poetry workshops for at-risk youth in lockups and community schools. He hosts a monthly open-mic event in La Mesa.

Ron Salisbury holds an MFA from SDSU. He teaches poetry at San Diego Writers, Ink. His first book, Miss Desert Inn, won the Main Street Rag 2015 Poetry Prize. He is the inaugural Poet Laureate of San Diego (2020-22).

Robt O´Sullivan has impacted the regional poetry community since 1997, hosting readings. Since August, 2007, he has hosted the Poets‖INC‖(Inland‖North‖County)‖reading‖at‖Escondido´s‖Municipal‖ Gallery. escondidoarts.org

Jeff Walt won the Frank O´Hara Poetry Prize (2018). He served as judge of The Kowit and now coordinates the award program. jeffwalt.com

Jon Wesick, has had work published in the Atlanta Review, Berkeley Fiction Review, Pearl, and Slipstream. Nominated for a Pushcart Prize, his poetry collection is Words of Power, Dances of Freedom (Garden Oak Press: 2015). jonwesick.com

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EDITORIAL DIRECTOR

Ameerah Holliday, a former SDSU intern for two years, directs the digital production of the San Diego Poetry Annual and serves as Assistant Editor of the Kids! San Diego Poetry Annual. She is a junior literary agent with the Serendipity Literary Agency and holds a BA in English Literature from SDSU.

MANAGING EDITOR

Seretta Martin holds an MFA in Creative Writing from SDSU and hosts special readings at libraries. A finalist for the Philip Levine award, her second book, Overtaking Glass, is pending publication. CEO of Blue Vortex Publishers, she co-directs Border Voices Poetry and teaches at San Diego Writers, Ink and in area schools. bordervoices.com cpits.org sandiegowriters.org

EXECUTIVE EDITOR

Michael Klam organizes the Poetry & Art Series in San Diego, ongoing since 2001. He serves on the board of directors for the San Diego Entertainment and Arts Guild. He is an editor and partner with Border Voices. His books include Emma and the Buddha Frog (Puna Press, 2007), The Cheapest Flight to Paradise (Puna Press, 2017) and Anything for a Dull Moment (Garden Oak Press, 2020). poetryandartsd.com sdeag.org sandiegopoetryannual.com

PUBLISHER

Anthony Blacksher, known as Ant Black in performance poetry circles, earned a PhD from Claremont Graduate University. A professor at San Bernardino Valley College, his performance poetry has appeared on YouTube and in the San Diego Poetry Annual. sdeag.org sandiegopoetryannual.com

FOUNDER

William Harry Harding has written four novels, including Three Women and the River, or The Englishman Who Forgot His Own Name (Lymer & Hart: 2018). He founded Garden Oak Press and chairs the San Diego Entertainment and Arts Guild (SDEAG) non-profit, which sponsors the San Diego Poetry Annual. sdeag.org sandiegopoetryannual.com gardenoakpress.com

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Though the COVID-19 pandemic prevented scheduled readings for 2020, our partners and host venues committed resources and effort to support the San Diego Poetry Annual.

@Spacebar 7454 University Ave, La Mesa, CA 91942 · (619) 461-7100 https://atspacebar.com

Bluestocking Books 3817 Fifth Ave., San Diego, CA 92103 (619) 296-1424 bluestockingbooks.com

Encinitas Library 540 Cornish Dr., Encinitas, CA 92024 (760) 753-7376 SHARMIN FERDOUS, Librarian

The Escondido Arts Partnership 262 E. Grand Ave., Escondido, CA 92025 (760) 480-4101 escondidoarts.org

The Ink Spot San Diego Writers, Ink 2730 Historic Decatur Rd, San Diego, CA 92106 KRISTEN FOGLE, Executive Director sandiegowriters.org (619) 696-0363

La Jolla/Riford Branch Library 7555 Draper Ave., La Jolla, CA 92037 (858) 552-1657 BILL MALLORY, Librarian

Mission Hills Branch Library 925 W. Washington St., San Diego, CA 92103 (619) 692-4910 GINA BRAVO, Librarian

Pt. Loma/Hervey Branch Library 3701 Voltaire St., San Diego, CA 92107 (619) 531-1539 CHRISTINE GONZALEZ, Librarian

San Diego City Central Library 330 Park Blvd., San Diego, CA 92101 (619) 236-5800 MARC CHERY, Supervisor, Humanities Section

Southwestern Community College 900 Otay Lakes Rd., Chula Vista, CA 91910 FRANCISCO J. BUSTOS, Coordinating Professor (619) 421-6700 swccd.edu

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SPECIAL THANKS

Poets & Writers Foundation for generous grants to workshop facilitators in outreach community programs: Poets in Juvenile Hall and Native Poets

Ron Salisbury for judging the Steve Kowit Poetry Prize

Maria Mazziotti Gillan, Clare MacQueen, Suzanne Lummis, Ellen Bass for publicizing and promoting The Kowit

Marc Chery and the San Diego Public Library for supporting The Kowit award ceremony

To all who volunteered to host readings cancelled by the COVID-19 pandemic: Sandy Mackie, Curran Jeffery, Robt O´Sullivan, Seretta Martin, Jim Moreno, Francisco J. Bustos, Jeff Walt, Judy Reeves, Marit Anderson, Fred Longworth, Michael Klam, Crystophver R

CREDITS

Cover and Frontispiece: Leucadia mural by ISAÍAS CROW isaiascrow.com

Poems 1: Cactus, Lake Hodges photograph by ROBT O'SULLIVAN

Steve Kowit Poetry Prize: Steve grinning photograph by MARY KOWIT

Native Poets: Butterfly photograph by DEBBIE HALL

Poems from Juvenile Hall: At the Feeder photograph by DEBBIE HALL

Poems 2: Trees and Sun, Lake Hodges photograph by ROBT O'SULLIVAN

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