THE DAUGHTERS OF LONGING

All by Florence Mary Anderson

THE DAUGHTERS OF LONGING

This belongs to the night.

It has those lights about it.

It has that shape we love

That curls into our own body

As we lie abed, not sleeping

But remembering how sleep

Was and what kinds of gifts

It brought to us.

We are unable to speak,

Think ourselves still asleep,

Covered in the cream of darkness

That pulls on our legs, urges us

To dance if only for a moment.

We stand upon the water.

This must be the part of dreaming.

But we find we are water, we

Move through one another,

Scooped into an iridescence

That we can barely remember,

“Mommy, I was glowing.  Am

I still glowing?  I think I am.”

There is Saturday everywhere.

The morning leaks through the blinds,

Slides across the room and finds

Our eyes.  “Yes, you are still

Glowing.”  Right now, it’s the sun

On your skin, the soft, tiny hairs

On the body captures light for

Its moment and fills the morning

With smiles that will stay with us.

They are the daughters of longing.

LA NOCHE

LA NOCHE

It bothers me

that the night

is outside minding its own

business while I am

in my room half

expecting you to appear

in the bed next to me.

You, with your brow arched,

surprised to have been

shipped across the night

like so much luggage;

the white roses of sleep

still in your skin.

I would be as surprised.

Hello? It would be like

saying hello to 

myself on this late August

night, where the voices

of dogs are so small

in the distance, that my breath

seems huge. no, hellos

would never do.

The dark just outside the

window waits for me to put

the lights out. It has ways

of getting to me, of opening

the dreams like oranges

and spilling these thoughts

of you all around me,

before I can catch a glimpse

of you shuttling across the

night air, not alarmed

at all by this thinking

it is just the changing

of the season that causes

these things. not alarmed

by the love of it. not at all.

Knowing you will wake up

far away from this room,

the night being busy

with so much else. with

traffic and dogs and things

of its fabric as to

make such journeys a

matter of reaching to the end

of the bed and pulling

another blanket up above

your shoulders.

STARS LEAVING THEIR PLACES

STARS LEAVING THEIR PLACES

She lists well, that is

She neither perches

Or will sing, but coraciiform

And with catoptric eye reflects

All that is best in love and searchs,

Lively as a leveret

Room upon sweet room of

Heart’s folly, almost a test

To see what’s only guessed in

The lippers of emotions

That in their ruffling defines

The shape of depths

That lie below mere words.

The heart with its working,

Sucked up from the sea,

She sees as silver fish,

Forgeries of jewelry.

lists - an archaic use of the word as a transitive verb meaning 'to be pleasing to;suit.

coraciiform - an order of birds with strong sharp bills, usually bright coloration like bee eaters or hornbills.  One of my favorite families theyalways have a haughty look to them.

catroptic - not that obscure but it means reflecting or related to mirrors.

a leveret is a young hare but hardly anyone calls them that these days.

and lippers - ah yes, a slightly rough surface of a body of water.  I used to hear it on the Great Lakes but haven't heard it for years.

THE DARKENER

Dave Boles

THE DARKENER: RING AROUND THE ROSY OH

And so the Darkener came and placed his hands

In those of the Sickener and so they resumed

Their trek to destruction. And also so as tales

Go, they found a flea to carry their torture.

And it’s Ring around the rosy oh, the fever pitch

The crazy bitch that chases its tail in destruction

A pocket full of posies go as round the ring the

Dancers go, scratch at the fleas and think no more

But ashes, ashes, they all fall down  And the Quickner,

And the baker and the glad undertaker go round the ring

Again for children playing, go past the reaper grim and

All for playing, playing, playing.  And all in fun for playing.

WHERE IS GOD TODAY?

WHERE IS GOD TODAY?

Oh there is a terrible crying on the night air.

Children with dreams caught in their mouths,

Unable to speak.  The thick vengeance of sleep

Full upon them.  Wolves of sleep, cast not thy

Blowing eyes upon our small dominion.

We meant no harm.  We have even erased

Our poor names from the doors of

This kingdom.  Still our ears

Fill with the sounds of sirens and

Fearful gnashing of teeth.  A mad alarum

Chases through the night blood of our cities.

Our pulses spurting madly into its flames.

Oh there is a terrible crying on the night air.

And we softly lie here listening to the

Calm oceans of our breath as it wonders the

Stars with its sweet rhythm.

THE NIGHT IS BEAUTIFUL

THE NIGHT IS BEAUTIFUL

The night is beautiful

With its lips full

Upon the thighs of Summer.

It swirls the moon

Through clouds and spews

It high and bright and round

The dome of its fine home.

Crickets in their dark

Lovemaking, sing the praises

Of the grass and breezes,

A rhythmic transubstantiation

Played in scraping stridulation

To a counterpoint of August dark.

There, then and only then,

We take our breath out walking

On the milky paths of full moon

Shining and cast our glances deep

Into its lap of dreams, to hold

Just but a moment, for a moment

Only, all the crazy swirl of star

Light unto ourselves that we

May be this way before it.

INDUSTRY

Rebecca Gozion

INDUSTRY

I had an emotional bypass,

A valve job on my feelings.

Now I’m pure Teflon II.

Nothing sticks, nothing penetrates.

I have no reaction.  Go ahead

Say something beyond description.

A white froth stays on my lips.

I am overcome by drugs generated in my glands.

Tears in my upholstery:

I’d like to give you something

Wonderful.  I look for something

And go blind.

When these doors open

I expect love.

No reflection.

No models.

Sores in the heart

That won’t heal.