FRIDAY

December 20, 2019

I have fallen into Friday and
never slept, like deep scars
hanging white the exhaust of
memory. Where long before
dawn, I missed the sheets
on an unmade bed, porcine
of undressed skin stitching
through threads. Fingers felt
to the length of hips where
denim thumbed the black, I
startle the moonrise giving
pale corseted with my window.
But it was easy to memorize
the nothing without feeling for
its wrinkle or smooth, where
I bore the hollow, got skinny in
my limbs stilling a girl from
spinning herself out of shadow.

Lana Bella

December

December 7, 2019

When my body had forgotten its purpose,
when it just hung off my brainstem like whipped mule.
When my hands only wrote. When my mouth only ate.
When my ass sat, my eyes read, when my reflexes
were answers to questions we all already knew.
Remember how it was then that you slid your hand
into me, a fork in the electric toaster of my body. Jesus,
where did all these sparks come from? Where was all
this heat? Remember what this mouth did last night?
And still, this morning I answer the phone like normal,
still I drink an hour’s worth of strong coffee. And now
I file. And now I send an email. And remember how
my lungs filled with all that everything? Remember
how my heart was an animal you released from its cage?
Remember how we unhinged? Remember all the names
our bodies called each other? Remember how afterwards,
the steam rose from us, like a pair of smiling ghosts?

Cristin O’Keefe Aptowicz

memory

November 21, 2019

Memory takes a lot of poetic license. It omits some details; others are exaggerated, according to the emotional value of the articles it touches, for memory is seated predominantly in the heart. The interior is therefore rather dim and poetic.

Tennessee Williams
The Glass Menagerie

places offer footholds

October 9, 2019

Certain places are intrinsically tied to memory for me; they hold deep meaning and power. The ideas of “space” and “place,” both in terms of an actual physical location and the spaces our bodies occupy, are intermingled within the poems as a way to orient voice and the reader’s perception. These places offer footholds, in a sense. I find myself drawn to places of power on the earth: the ethereal, the mystical, the liminal. Places were myth was once born. The sea plays an important role in my writing, as well as the shrouded mystery of the mountains, such as the Ozarks. I’m hoping each place connects and crosses over each other in some way in these poems.

Tamara Jobe
Interview with H/M

Transformed

September 28, 2019

Her voice whispered your name and you felt transformed. Remember that? In the street when it started to snow, the big flakes melting on the collar of her coat. Standing so close together, she set you on fire, her breath smoking in the icy air, and her lips soft on yours, and her nose cold against your cheek – you were dancing on the tip of her tongue, remember? So close, the crease of her hipbone pressed, grinding on tumescence. And you glimpsed silent, teasing laughter in her eyes…

Rain falling in the garden

September 21, 2019

Rain falling in the garden
I am not sad
we are both there, alone
you’ll light a fire, perhaps –

Wait, I know a story

Once upon a time…
it’s raining in my memory
I’m not crying, I’m certain –
Wait, please, I know stories
but it’s a little cold tonight
and this story is of people who
love each other.

Immortality

August 4, 2019

What is immortality?

Hera lays her head in the stars. Her fingers dance across the earth, as it spins on and on. Her eyes watch, face after face, as the wounds that once stung from betrayal, dull to a slight pang. Time. Immortality is time.

Hercules drifts between wedges of stone, hands lazily resting atop an engraving long since committed to memory. His ears are fooled by the echoes of laughter from another life. The fate of heroes is the dead they bury. Loss. Immortality is loss.

Persephone wanders in the fields, feet knee deep in the ground; senses ablaze from all the life that hums around her. A wicked grin is quick to dance across her face. A girl Goddess of Life to a Queen over the Dead. Change. Immortality is change.

Athena walks amongst a garden of statues. She remembers hair that was long brown tresses before it was scales. A gift and the power to give them, but no control in how it is used. Was it protection or something else? Punishment. Immortality is punishment.

Prometheus lifts heavy eyes to the heavens where the galaxies wrote fates he thought he could read. A blessing turned into a plague that ravaged mortality, twisting it into something devoid of the purity he once admired. Regret. Immortality is regret.

Ares sorts through rubble. Broken homes. Broken nations. Broken bones. Wars being fought from behind a desk instead of on the ground. Yet history is still being written in crimson, whether by a sword or a keyboard. Blood. Immortality is blood.

Zeus, Hades, and Poseidon sit and watch the end of the world, destruction the song they’ve hummed since birth. There will be era after era, for each end they will see a beginning. There is no Death that can threaten them. Eternity. Immortality is eternity.

L.H.Z

a man slaughters a goat

March 28, 2019

In my earliest memory, a man slaughters a goat in my bathroom. In Rabat, I am nameless, another Moroccan girl to be looked at but not seen. When goats cry, it sounds just like a baby. I couldn’t list all the terrible things we do to one another.  I remember the goat kicking out, frantic. The shattered mirror. The stumbled prayer. I was sick every visit: my stomach heaving dirty water. I would cry and everyone else would tsk, murmur American. Once, I kissed someone and I’m afraid it ruined the world. I’ve learned that it’s not what you do with the knife — it’s how you hold it after. But how do you hold something like that? Something that never stops baring its teeth; a voiceless dog, all bite, no bark. I remember very clearly that I never saw any blood. Honestly, I wouldn’t even know what to do with a knife. I didn’t even know what to do with that mouth.

Yasmin Belkhyr
Surah Al-Fatiha,
Bonelight

The Truth the Dead Know

March 21, 2019

for my Mother, born March 1902, died March 1959
and my Father, born February 1900, died June 1959

Gone, I say and walk from church,
refusing the stiff procession to the grave,
letting the dead ride alone in the hearse.
It is June. I am tired of being brave.

We drive to the Cape. I cultivate
myself where the sun gutters from the sky,
where the sea swings in like an iron gate
and we touch. In another country people die.

My darling, the wind falls in like stones
from the whitehearted water and when we touch
we enter touch entirely. No one’s alone.
Men kill for this, or for as much.

And what of the dead? They lie without shoes
in their stone boats. They are more like stone
than the sea would be if it stopped. They refuse
to be blessed, throat, eye and knucklebone.

Anne Sexton

located elsewhere

February 9, 2019

What if the place that we are in the midst of is different from the physical space that we currently inhabit? What if the things we yearn for are located elsewhere, in another place or in a remembered past, and all we now carry within us is an image of this place. We may remember only elements or impressions of it: there may be certain objects, smells, a smile or expression, particular acts or occasions, a word, all of which come out in a manner that we cannot control or understand. Yet any of these elements or impressions makes us feel ‘‘at home’’ in a way that we cannot find in the physical space where we are now stuck. This is the problem of exile, of being displaced and yet capable of remembering the particularity of place: it is the state of being dislocated yet able to discern what it is that locates us. We have a great yearning, but we cannot fulfil it with anything but memory.

Peter King
Memory and Exile: Time and Place in Tarkovsky’s Mirror