Lesser LIfe
–Carlos Drummond de Andrade
Translation
Vida menor
Photo by Martin Adams on Unsplash
Battle
–Yrsa Daley-WardLoving someone who hatesthemselvesis a special kind of violence.A fight inside the bones.A war within the blood.
Theories of Time and Space
–Natasha TretheweyYou can get there from here, though
there’s no going home.Everywhere you go will be somewhere
you’ve never been. Try this:head south on Mississippi 49, one—
by—one mile markers ticking offanother minute of your life. Follow this
to its natural conclusion—dead endat the coast, the pier at Gulfport where
riggings of shrimp boats are loose stitchesin a sky threatening rain. Cross over
the man-made beach, 26 miles of sanddumped on a mangrove swamp—buried
terrain of the past. Bring onlywhat you must carry—tome of memory
its random blank pages. On the dockwhere you board the boat for Ship Island,
someone will take your picture:the photograph—who you were—
will be waiting when you return
Photo by Dariusz Sankowski on Unsplash
What Milkman Leaps For
–francine j. harris
Photo by Sangga Rima Roman Selia on Unsplash
Jim Limber in Heaven is a Nexus at which the Many Heavens of the Multiverse Converge
–Shane McCrae
Photo by Kristaps Ungurs on Unsplash
Books
–Andrei Codrescudeath covers me with fine dust.
i love used fat books. they are
like used fat bodies coming out of sleep
covered with fingerprints and shiny
snail trails.
i wish to read the way i love:
jumping from mirror to mirror like a drop of oil
farther and farther from my death.
but god gives us fat books and fat bodies
to use for different reasons
and less a metaphor i cannot say
what haunts me
Photo by Robert Anasch on Unsplash
Fifty
–Christian Wiman“Renouncing kingship like a snot of phlegm”
I go out into the park. I have my death with me,
iron friend, and a few feather regrets
that one by one lift from me in the wind.
I have two daughters and one cloud, an old oak
and a great love, elected solitude, given sun.
There never was a now this golden one.
Photo by Simon Wilkes on Unsplash
The Subject of Retreat
–Yona HarveyYour black coat is a door
in the storm. The snow
we don’t mention
clings to your boots & powders
& puffs. & poof. Goes.
Dust of the fallen. Right here
at home. The ache
of someone gone-missing. Walk it off
like a misspoken word.
Mound of snow. Closed door.
I could open it.Or maybe just, you know—
brush it off.Then what? The snow
on the other side. The sound
of what I know & your, no, inside it.
On Starting
–Phil KayeYour ideas are fish
you are trying to catch
with your bare handsonly with a quiet mind
is the surface glassy enough
for you to plunge your arms below
hold on to
the squirming gift
wide-eyed & fat
stunned at its own reflection
as it inhales out of the water