when the one you thought, finally, wouldn't, does, - Marty McConnell

where do you go? the hole in your hands

keeps getting bigger. first a pencil falls through.

then your teacup, then entire bodies

like light, like you’re made of nothing stronger

than tissue, than sugar heated and spread

to look like glass. not the real thing. not you.

your atoms sit so far apart, your lovers

walk right through. one might say, over

the top of you. but no need for that, when you

can bend around their many departures, the most

porous door. she came back. they always

come back. why not. you are not a creature

of consequences. one way to survive a fall

is to believe very strongly that you

do not have bones. another

is to watch the hole in your body grow

until you are nothing but hole, and who

doesn’t love a hole. you’re the great circle

they can write their lives inside, a flat

unused womb they can crawl into. in this

way, you are useful. this way, you can sleep

in the house that raised you.

AND THE SCARS WILL BE COVERED - Richard Shelton

responsibility fell at my feet

like a dead bird

and I left it for the collectors of feathers

now I am leaving these words on sand

for the water

and when everything is gone

a voice will say

that’s home

where two paths cross without speaking

where a lost shoe full of darkness

is curled up

under the roots of the snow

then I will point myself in the right direction

alone I hope

I was never much for company

and start off down an empty road

toward winter and a silence

which no one will ever repair

Straw House, Straw Dog - Richard Siken

               1

I watched TV.         I had a Coke at the bar.       I had four dreams in a row

where you were burned, about to burn, or still on fire.

               I watched TV.          I had a Coke at the bar. I had four Cokes,

four dreams in a row.

Here you are in the straw house, feeding the straw dog. Here you are

               in the wrong house, feeding the wrong dog. I had a Coke with ice.

I had four dreams on TV.          You have a cold cold smile.

               You were burned, you were about to burn, you’re still on fire.

Here you are in the straw house, feeding ice to the dog, and you wanted

               an adventure, so I said          Have an adventure.

The straw about to burn, the straw on fire. Here you are on the TV,

               saying Watch me, just watch me.

               2

Four dreams in a row, four dreams in a row, four dreams in a row,

               fall down right there. I wanted to fall down right there but I knew

you wouldn’t catch me because you’re dead.          I swallowed crushed ice

pretending it was glass and you’re dead. Ashes to ashes.

You wanted to be cremated so we cremated you and you wanted an adventure

               so I ran          and I knew you wouldn’t catch me.

You are a fever I am learning to live with, and everything is happening

               at the wrong end of a very long tunnel.

               3

I woke up in the morning and I didn’t want anything, didn’t do anything,

               couldn’t do it anyway,

just lay there listening to the blood rush through me and it never made

               any sense, anything.

And I can’t eat, can’t sleep, can’t sit still or fix things and I wake up and I

wake up and you’re still dead, you’re under the table, you’re still feeding

               the damn dog, you’re cutting the room in half.

Whatever.           Feed him whatever.           Burn the straw house down.

               4

I don’t really blame you for being dead but you can’t have your sweater back.

               So, I said, now that we have our dead, what are we going to do with them?

There’s a black dog and there’s a white dog, depends on which you feed,

               depends on which damn dog you live with.

               5

Here we are

               in the wrong tunnel, burn O burn, but it’s cold, I have clothes

all over my body, and it’s raining, it wasn’t supposed to. And there’s snow

               on the TV, a landscape full of snow, falling from the fire-colored sky.

But thanks, thanks for calling it          the blue sky

               You can sleep now, you said. You can sleep now. You said that.

I had a dream where you said that. Thanks for saying that.

               You weren’t supposed to.

Untitled - Rupi Kaur

how is it so easy for you

to be kind to people he asked

milk and honey dripped

from my lips as i answered

cause people have not

been kind to me

Survival Poem #17 - Marty McConnell

because this is what you do. get up.

blame the liquor for the heaviness. call in late

to work. go to the couch because the bed

is too empty. watch people scream about love

on Jerry Springer. count the ways

it could be worse. it could be last week

when the missing got so big

you wrote him a letter

and sent it. it could be yesterday, no work

to go to, whole day looming.

it could be last month

or the month before, when you still

thought maybe. still carried plans

around with you like talismans.

you could have kissed him last night.

could have gone home with him, given in,

cried after, softly, face to the wall, his heavy arm

around you, hand on your stomach, rubbing.

shower. remember your body. water

hotter than you can stand. sit

on the shower floor. the word

devastated ringing the tub. buildings

collapsed into themselves. ribs

caving toward the spine. recite

the strongest poem you know. a spell

against the lonely that gets you

in crowds and on three hours’ sleep.

wonder where the gods are now.

get up. because death is not

an alternative. because this is what you do.

air like soup, move. door, hallway, room.

pants, socks, shoes. sweater. coat. cold.

wish you were a bird. remember you

are not you, now. you are you

a year from now. how does that

woman walk? she is not sick or sad.

doesn’t even remember today.

has been to Europe. what song

is she humming? now. right now.

that’s it.

TODAY MY ALARM WENT OFF AT 12:30PM - Mira Gonzalez

I stayed in bed for over an hour
looked at things on my phone
I felt slightly anxious about nothing particular
I walked downstairs and poured coffee into a jar
I asked a person on the internet if I should take drugs
I took drugs before the person had time to respond

I feel alienated by people who express concern about me without
defining their concern in terms of a specific solution or goal
I dont feel comforted by the idea of an afterlife
I dont want to continue experiencing things after I die
I want someone to pull my hair because I like the idea of someone
controlling my head without touching my head

what is the difference between being an independent person
and being a person who is accepting of loneliness

REPLICAS - Lawrence Raab

We were tooling along in Fred’s old jalopy,

thrown off our game

because the directions to the lunatic asylum were confusing.

I decided not to mention how appropriate

getting lost might be, maybe later

having to battle the elements to stay alive.

I’d been reading the old myths

and liked to imagine sailing through the clashing rocks

with only an oar for a weapon,

which wasn’t the most useful idea since we were heading

south of Tampa, trying to find our old friend

Adam, who might be waiting for a visit.

On the other hand, I thought, and then recalled

Adam having said far too often: On the other hand––

a knife is up close and personal.

People didn’t like to hear that kind of thing,

but we were sure he meant no harm,

even if in fact he did. We figured by now

he’d have forgotten the dangerous inclinations

of his youth, those days when he insisted

we’d all been misled by the voices

in our heads, then turned into replicas

of the people we thought we were. “Of course,”

Adam explained, “certain men choose

to be tempted by sirens. Others just let it happen.”

I told Fred that last part made sense, or sounded

like it should. “Damn,” Fred replied,

having taken another wrong turn.

“Not every kind of craziness makes sense.

Believe me, you’ve got to draw the line somewhere.”

At first Adam was upset about being sent away,

but since then we’d heard

he’d grown accustomed to the quiet gardens

they let him putter about in. We imagined

him kneeling down in the soil

like his name-sake and weeding

something small and green,

wondering why he’d ever believed

what he had, or else why no one

had ever understood what he believed.

Or perhaps both thoughts vanished

while he concentrated on his task, half-listening

to the murmuring of the more distracted guests

as they explained to each other how easily

they had been deceived by their lives.

Watched Pot Apostrophes - Paul Guest

You will never boil.  You’ll go blind
not doing that. In space, your blood
will also refuse to boil.  No surprise
all the movies are dead wrong,
though my nerves aren’t soothed
whenever I’m bobbing in the vacuum
like an apple in ice water.
You are going to receive money.
And then you’ll spend it
on a fiberglass replica
of the sports car you wanted
when you were thirteen.
Or fifteen.  You may think this matters,
this discrepancy fluttering
in your face like a ragged moth.
Trust me, you'll summer in Ceylon.
When they decide to change
the name back.  When all
the maps at once go a little bad.
I’ve assumed more
than is good for one’s soul.
You’ll inform me you bled out a long time ago.
In Chicago.  In Reading.
Somewhere cold.  Winter
all the time, where people go
down to the frozen water
with an old crowbar
to bash the skin of the ice back to flowing current.
You were one of them,
weren’t you, with death
itching in the brain like a cloud of midges?
You won’t fall if I let go.
I never held you in my arms.

Backwards (For Saaid Shire) - Warsan Shire

The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.

He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life;

that's how we bring Dad back.

I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole.

We grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear,

your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums.

I can make us loved, just say the word.

Give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent,

I can write the poem and make it disappear.

Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass,

Mum's body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place,

maybe she keeps the baby.

Maybe we're okay kid?

I'll rewrite this whole life and this time there'll be so much love,

you won't be able to see beyond it.

You won't be able to see beyond it,

I'll rewrite this whole life and this time there'll be so much love.

Maybe we're okay kid,

maybe she keeps the baby.

Mum's body rolls back up the stairs, the bone pops back into place,

Step-Dad spits liquor back into glass.

I can write the poem and make it disappear,

give them stumps for hands if even once they touched us without consent,

I can make us loved, just say the word.

Your cheeks soften, teeth sink back into gums

we grow into smaller bodies, my breasts disappear.

I can make the blood run back up my nose, ants rushing into a hole,

that's how we bring Dad back.

He takes off his jacket and sits down for the rest of his life.

The poem can start with him walking backwards into a room.

MOONLESS NIGHT - Louise Glück

A lady weeps at a dark window.

Must we say what it is? Can’t we simply say

a personal matter? It’s early summer;

next door the Lights are practicing klezmer music.

A good night: the clarinet is in tune.

As for the lady--she’s going to wait forever;

there’s no point in watching longer.

After awhile, the streetlight goes out.

But is waiting forever

always the answer? Nothing

is always the answer; the answer

depends on the story.

Such a mistake to want

clarity above all things. What’s

a single night, especially

one like this, now so close to ending?

On the other side, there could be anything,

all the joy in the world, the stars fading,

the streetlight becoming a bus stop.

Norris Cancer Institute - Sholeh Wolpé

He, dying.

Air dancing, sun shining

somewhere out there.

And I walking the corridors, looking

for an exit.

Walking Around With A Broken Umbrella - Noor Hindi

Because sneezing my emotions onto the fibers of your

Kleenex isn’t working, I’ve spent my days punching

mailboxes, and taking victory laps around childhood

graveyards. I know you think I resemble a Sour Patch

Kid, that my thoughts are just silly string. Maybe my

brain twitches too much and maybe I was born inside

of a teardrop. I’m all passion. But to me, you are the sun

and I’m hanging my thoughts on a clothesline for you.

If I told you to disentangle our straw house, if I told you

that I feel like a puddle that is gliding towards a sewer,

what would you say? If I asked you to set fire to the world

using only the warmth of our hands, would you do it?

                                                   *

Yesterday, I became so angry that I ate a quesadilla. Then I

smashed my desk with a snow globe. I once cried for three

days about a purple butterfly kite that refused to fly. Weeks

later, I sobbed at our toaster for burning my optimism,

and when you called me unstable, I kicked our floor pantry

just to prove you right. It was inevitable. You would spit me

out as if I was a watermelon seed. You would ask me three

times a day how I felt about broken backspaces, but my eyes

were already decomposing. Days expired. I was the rotting Jack

O’ Lantern left outside our door. Every time you told me a

truth, I used a magnifying glass to find all of your potholed

lies. Eventually, I fell silent watching the image of you,

dad, melt like the icicles that later formed on our house

gutters. I tried to hold them once, but they only burned my hands.

For the Dead - Adrienne Rich

I dreamed I called you on the telephone

to say: Be kinder to yourself

but you were sick and would not answer

The waste of my love goes on this way

trying to save you from yourself

I have always wondered about the leftover

energy, water rushing down a hill

long after the rains have stopped

or the fire you want to go to bed from

but cannot leave, burning-down but not burnt-down

the red coals more extreme, more curious

in their flashing and dying

than you wish they were

sitting there long after midnight

"Sorry" - Ntozake Shange

one thing i don’t need

is any more apologies

i got sorry greetin me at my front door

you can keep yrs

i don’t know what to do wit em

they dont open doors

or bring the sun back

they dont make me happy

or get a mornin paper

didnt nobody stop usin my tears to wash cars

cuz a sorry

i am simply tired

of collectin

i didnt know

i was so important to you

i’m gonna haveta throw some away

i cant get to the clothes in my closet

for alla the sorries

i’m gonna tack a sign to my door

leave a message by the phone

‘if you called

to say yr sorry

call somebody

else

i dont use em anymore’

i let sorry/ didnt meanta/ & how cd i know abt that

take a walk down a dark & musty street in brooklyn

i’m gonna do exactly what i want to

& i wont be sorry for none of it

letta sorry soothe yr soul/ i’m gonna soothe mine

you were always inconsistent

doin somethin & then bein sorry

beatin my heart to death

talkin bout you sorry

well

i will not call

i’m not goin to be nice

i will raise my voice

& scream & holler

& break things & race the engine

& tell all yr secrets bout yrself to yr face

& i will list in detail everyone of my wonderful lovers

& their ways

i will play oliver lake

loud

& i wont be sorry for none of it

i loved you on purpose

i was open on purpose

i still crave vulnerability & close talk

& i’m not even sorry bout you bein sorry

you can carry all the guilt & grime ya wanna

just dont give it to me

i cant use another sorry

next time

you should admit

you’re mean/ low-down/ triflin/ & no count straight out

steada bein sorry alla the time

enjoy bein yrself

Icarus, The Fool - Riley R.

It is easy to think me a fool,

the foolish boy whose foolish dreams

melted his wings and

broke his father’s heart.

What is harder to see:

I knew the math of it all,

remembered the geometry of

wax and feathers

so well I could taste it on my tongue

scraping like cardamom

and sour sweet like tangerines

on the roof of my mouth.

Height and wind speed,

melting points and velocity,

lift and thrust,

bird wings turned to equations

I held in my heart.

But oh,

to fly is nothing at all like math.

It is nothing at all like diagrams of

birds and insects and cloud formations.

To see the sun, The Sun, oh,

to spread your fingers through it’s warmth

as the air becomes tangible like the sea,

oh, there was no room in this heart for

the coldness of figures,

they were melted long long before my wings.

So judge, though the sky has never loved you

and I will yearn for the sun, The Sun,

oh,

from the bottom of the sea.

dial tone - Riley R.

The saddest poem I ever wrote

was the “goodbye” I whispered

on the skin of your temple

so softly you didn’t hear it

until the fifth time you called

and I didn’t pick up

when the voicemail you left

was ten seconds of silence

followed by a sigh

as you took the phone from your ear.

BROTHER - Richard Shelton

you still carry

your guilt around for company

I will not deprive you of it

but I have an empty space

where my hate lived

while I nursed it

as if it were a child

brother my only

brother it was too late for us

before we were born

it was too late

before you learned to be brutal

and I learned to be weak

your childhood

was a hallway of doors

each closing just as you

got to it

but I was younger

and all the doors were closed

before I could walk

how could I have expected you

to save me when you could

not save yourself

brother my only

brother if not from you

from whom did I learn

so much despair

I went in search

of a father and found you

with a whip in your hand

but what were you searching for

in such dark places

where I was searching for love

THE BOTTOM LINE - Richard Shelton

                                                       For William Stafford

You and I think about it: who pays

the price for the way we live?

Some people live so still

they incur no expenses. Others,

so wild there's the Devil to pay.

Some don't even know they're in debt

and others go slow to avoid it.

People like you pay as you go

and people like me live in debt,

but we know who we owe. I owe

a woman, a good woman, and I

will never be able to pay.

People like you are beautiful

and free of all debt. The best

that can be said for people like me

is that we know who we owe.

Lightness - Meg Bateman (translated from the Gaelic)

It was your lightness that drew me,

the lightness of your talk and your laughter,

the lightness of your cheek in my hands,

your sweet gentle modest lightness;

and it is the lightness of your kiss

that is starving my mouth,

and the lightness of your embrace

that will let me go adrift.

New World - Louise Glück

As I saw it,

all my mother's life, my father

held her down, like

lead strapped to her ankles.

She was

buoyant by nature;

she wanted to travel,

go to theater, go to museums.

What he wanted

was to lie on the couch

with the Times

over his face,

so that death, when it came,

wouldn't seem a significant change.

In couples like this,

where the agreement

is to do things together,

it's always the active one

who concedes, who gives.

You can't go to museums

with someone who won't

open his eyes.

I thought my father's death

would free my mother.

In a sense, it has:

she takes trips, looks at

great art. But she's floating.

Like some child's balloon

that gets lost the minute

it isn't held.

Or like an astronaut

who somehow loses the ship

and has to drift in space

knowing, however long it lasts,

this is what's left of being alive: she's free

in that sense.

Without relation to earth.