POEMS OF THE MONTH VII

Week Forty-One.

October 7th 2017 – Jorie Graham, Exchange

die. What is die. Now there is not blood on the earth
anymore. We disappear. We pixilate. Races or places, is it.
Which? Remember what it was to carry your load? Your you. That
weight. Wondrous it was. At intervals light-struck. Silence and then the
cutting of water, sleeping audible, thrown about by breath, keeping a sharp lookout —
here’s where free choice vanished, here rights, here the
real meaning of the word — (you choose) — consequence, capital, commodity, con-
sumption. Community? Come here says time. Just try to
find it, the here. Such a good game to keep you
occupied for now. The rest of the now. It’s going to be a long
time. Why are you here. What are they lending you.
How can it be loaned. What is a loan. The changers.
Who gets to keep it. No one gets to keep it. No one. None of it.
What is it. The money changers. What can


Week Forty-Two.

October 14th 2017 – Mark Waldron, The Stick

Existence trumps nonexistence every time. It has
all the colors and all the shapes and all the moves,

it is rude in its bounty and its grotesque reach that
overcomes all before it. This bit of stick I found in

the park was showing off because the dead can’t have it.
They can’t have any of it. It was sticky and prickled

with a showy, dazzling presence, though it’s quietened
a little now, now that I’ve taken it home

and have it here on the mantelpiece. It has dressed
in purple robes and carried its being like a chalice

with such disarming mock-solemnity down and down
the pale carved steps into its candlelit depths.


Week Forty-Three.

October 21st 2017 – Margarita Engle, Ritmo/Rhythm

Mad has decided to catch a vulture,
the biggest bird she can find.

She is so determined, and so inventive,
that by stringing together a rickety trap
of ropes and sticks, she creates
a puzzling structure that just might
be clever enough to trick a buzzard,
once the trap’s baited with leftover pork
from supper.


Week Forty-Four.

October 28th 2017 – Francisco X. Alarcon, Words are Birds

words
are birds
that arrive
with books
and spring

they
love
clouds
the wind
and trees

some words
are messengers
that come
from far away
from distant lands


 

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