foetry

BY HYEJUNG KOOK

Again this year I’ve failed the peonies that came to us

when we bought our house in summer, not knowing what

pink and white glory grew in the northwest. After the first May,

still childless, seeing how a single bloom could overflow

the cup of my hands, the stems bowing to the ground

under their weight, I bought cages to circle the red shoots

after they crowned but only used them once. Arrow-like

as they emerge from the earth, the just unfurling leaves

look like fingers, reminiscent of intestinal villi and sea anemones,

moving with unexpected purpose. It is the force that through

the green fuse drives the flower, drives me to try and fail

again to conceive, which turns the leaves green, my eyes green,

everything greening and growing before my scaffolding

is in place. Again this year I’ve failed, but I haven’t been outside

in eight weeks without precautions against “the sickness”

as we’ve come to call it in our house, long days spent only

with my children, four and six, and my husband. A surly demand,

a dropped dish, misplaced keys, and I find myself wearing a crown

of overtowering rage, like the sun’s corona flaring,

the outermost layers of atmosphere flung violently into space,

invisible to most instruments except during a total solar eclipse,

as in 1869, when scientists detected a spectral green line,

possible indication of a new element they called coronium,

but in 1943, that grassy green was identified as iron

in a forbidden transition, half its electrons stripped away

by heat exceeding a million degrees. The world is burning

while I drift in a bubble of comfort but seized by anger

day after day until one evening I step out to find the peonies

that have managed to stay upright now reach my hips,

the pinks already perfuming the air, the whites still closed

tighter than a fist. The next morning I wake

with my grandmother’s voice in my ears, something

about mislaid glasses, and for long moments, I can’t recall

if she’s dead or alive. When I remember she’s gone,

I sob, unable to control my shudders, waking my daughter

who uncurls from my side and asks, “Why are you crying?”

How to explain the weight of loss pressing down

after a brief reprieve. The weight of a knee on a neck.

Children in detention while pandemic spreads. I don’t.

Instead I say, “I miss my grandmother who died.”

She gently pats my cheeks, then presses her forehead

against mine, so close all I see is the dark Cyclopean

blur of her eyes. Maybe it’s better to be unmoored

by rage and grief, to burn away that which binds us,

enriching the earth, making space for new growth.

Maybe my inability to cage a living thing isn’t

a failing at all. Better to let the green drive us

in a wild unfettered tangle, blooming or not,

to feel the comfort of my daughter’s touch, the renewal

of pain a small price for my grandmother alive again

in my mind while the peonies dive headfirst into the dirt.

BY ARTRESS BETHANY WHITE

June 2020

I invoke my great-great-grandmother’s name on exhaled breath,

the vowels arranging themselves in shorts and longs,

syntax and semantics duking it out.

Mima, that could have been birthed from an African tongue.

Enee, meene, mima, mo, respectable marriage of village,

continent, and town, without a diabolic Je like a pendulum swing

to the scarlet kerchief blooming in my brain, pancakes on my tongue,

unwilling to utter that name over black families now living out

their American dream. Like reinvention, how the heart longs

to reconcile past and present, within a village

raising a newer child clawing out of epicureal stink to swing

free from stereotypes, auction block, and Aunt Jemima’s mealy breath.

Instead, pancakes every time my forebears’ syllabics touch my tongue.

Mima sans  Je, not Meema, or Mi’ma[e], coy notes stepping out

of a history where grits and flapjacks were birthed in a village

to skirt my teeth or strut ’cross my lips on exhaled breath,

that ample bosom and backside mocking me, she who longs

to rear up and bark Breakfast! and Brunch! on a revolving door swing.

You are not my Auntie or Aunt pronounced like the creature crawling out

over cadavers of supermarket boxes choking my breath

on a collapsed lung of shady marketing to keep bodies bound in a village-

cum-ghetto of stranger than strange imagined black things, girl-on-a-swing

dreams culled from western imaginings of what that colored gal longs

to do over a hot stove, flipping and flapping ’cause the griddle got her tongue.

Names as revenue monikers on revue, line dancing on a hip swing.

Oh, how daring to cogitate on destiny, each syllable a village

of preferred ubiquity, once the Ghanaian name Afua translated out

to first girl child born on a Friday, sonic genealogy on the tongue,

but changed to post-baptismal Mary, a rigid catechism of colonial breath

blowing across centuries of arid longing.

Food me, fooled me, sold me, told me, held me, bled me, tongue

afire with dreams of love, life, and freedom a profusion of days swinging

between something and more. My village compound, my village

quarters, my village a city block, each century censuring my breath.

What I seek is what I speak, not handed a script of nostalgic longing.

Jemima wrenched from shelves, but a litany in my brain still playing out.

Ain’t nothing but a jonesing to tweak culinary history so my village

knows my branches are thick, swaying and swinging with longing and breath,

rolling descendancy off my tongue, blessing consumption out. 

BY ILIANA ROCHA

After Yayoi Kusama After FRONTLINE’s “Rape in the Fields”

“We have no work for you, but I can hire your daughters.” He would try to touch me.

            Those moments accumulate in the interstices of someone else’s

history. “Let’s go inspect the field.” It was dark, but the insects glimmered as if to

      ​​​​​​​      distract. My body followed my hair, pulled

taut into the field’s secrecy. “There, the almond orchard.” We call them ​​​​​​​fields de calzón,

​​​​​​​      ​​​​​​​      the ó bursting like ripe fruit.

“She was always ready in a red nightgown.” The streams nearby, the varicose veins

​​​​​​​      ​​​​​​​      he couldn’t describe. Every acre wasn’t his to cultivate.

“Where have you been hiding her?” The field blinks. Hums. Ruptures. A confined

​​​​​​​      ​​​​​​​      darkness punctured with small consolations of light.

The field, infinite mirrors at one intersection. My face echoing & echoing. “I don’t

​​​​​​​      ​​​​​​​      have an answer for that.” Frogs scream for help.

​​​​​​​      ​​​​​​​      Our faces echo awfully the aggregate.

BY DEBORA KUAN

You know sleep will dart beyond your grasp. Its edges

crude and merciless. You will clutch at straws,

wandering the cold, peopled rooms of

the Internet, desperate for any fix. A

vapor of faith. An amply paid gig, perhaps,

for simply having an earnest heart or

keeping alive the children you successfully

bore. Where, you’d like to know,

on your résumé do you get to insert

their names, or the diaper rash you lovingly cured

with coconut oil, or the white lies you mustered

about the older man in the cream-colored

truck that glorious spring day, who hung his head

out the window and shouted, “Coronavirus!”

while you were chalking unicorns

and seahorses in the drive? Where

do you get to say you clawed through

their night terrors, held them through their sweaty

grunting and writhing, half-certain a demon

had possessed them, and still appeared

lucid for a 9 a.m. meeting, washed, combed, and collared,

speaking the language of offices?

At last, what catches your eye is posted large-

font and purple: a local mother in search

of baby clothes for another mother

in need. Immediately your body is charged,

athletic with purpose, gathering diapers,

clothes, sleep sacks, packing them tightly in bags.

You tie the bags with a ribbon and set them

on the porch for tomorrow. Then you stand

at the door, chest still thumping wildly, as if

you have just won the lottery—

                           and so you did, didn’t you?

You arrived here, at this night, in one

piece, from a lifetime of luck

and error, with something necessary to give.

BY ANURADHA BHOWMIK

BUDDY INFO: CANDYDANDY24 Personal Profile:

*~iF yOu GoT mY nAmE             iN yOuR mOuTh                                               //             ((dOn `T fOrGeT to sMfD1))                          <3

1 SMFD (v.): Since male interaction was strictly prohibited in Ma’s police state, my attempts at      heterosexual socialization Mainly drew from erotica on Xanga & my underaged presence in chat rooms.      Yet, Ma was determined to Find me watching porn, to inflict her preferential punishment. My captor believed that      shame bred loyalty. My Distrust for authority obliterated any loyalty. But if I lied artfully, like a man,      my dissidence would evade detection.

BY CHARLOTTE MEW

Three summers since I chose a maid,

     Too young maybe—but more’s to do

     At harvest-time than bide and woo.

              When us was wed she turned afraid

     Of love and me and all things human;

     Like the shut of a winter’s day

     Her smile went out, and ’twadn’t a woman—

            More like a little frightened fay.

                    One night, in the Fall, she runned away.

     “Out ’mong the sheep, her be,” they said,

     ’Should properly have been abed;

     But sure enough she wadn’t there

     Lying awake with her wide brown stare.

So over seven-acre field and up-along across the down

     We chased her, flying like a hare

     Before our lanterns. To Church-Town

              All in a shiver and a scare

     We caught her, fetched her home at last

              And turned the key upon her, fast.

     She does the work about the house

     As well as most, but like a mouse:

              Happy enough to chat and play

              With birds and rabbits and such as they,

              So long as men-folk keep away.

     “Not near, not near!” her eyes beseech

     When one of us comes within reach.

              The women say that beasts in stall

              Look round like children at her call.

              I’ve hardly heard her speak at all.

     Shy as a leveret, swift as he,

     Straight and slight as a young larch tree,

     Sweet as the first wild violets, she,

     To her wild self. But what to me?

     The short days shorten and the oaks are brown,

              The blue smoke rises to the low grey sky,

     One leaf in the still air falls slowly down,

              A magpie’s spotted feathers lie

     On the black earth spread white with rime,

     The berries redden up to Christmas-time.

              What’s Christmas-time without there be

              Some other in the house than we!

              She sleeps up in the attic there

              Alone, poor maid. ’Tis but a stair

     Betwixt us. Oh! my God! the down,

     The soft young down of her, the brown,

BY VALERIE WETLAUFER

I loved a girl

when I was a girl,

before I knew desire

could be used against me.

I so wanted to be relevant.

Simple exchange—

bouquets of wheat.

My dirt-stained hands,

tangled hair. I never

could be prim,

in apple-pie order.

I dropped all the eggs,

licking their smear

off my hands;

wrinkled her ribbons

into my pocket,

tore pages from her books,

all for the sake

BY LUCY IVES

This isn’t a great poem.

I’m not writing this to write a great poem.

I am writing this because I am one person.

I am only one.

I have a face and a front of my face.

I have two shoulders and two hips.

I’m living.

I live.

So what can I do with my face if it can’t see that person’s face?

What do I tell my eyes to see?

How do I let them know that when they see that face it is that person’s wish that they not know it?

How do I tell them we have to go back into the world where no one knows us and we don’t know anyone?

How do I tell them to stay there?

There is nothing for them to see.

How do I tell my hands they will never touch that person’s hands?

How do I tell my ears that when that person says my name it is only a word?

How do I tell my lips to make that person’s name another word so I can say it?

How do I tell my neck that person cannot see it?

How do I tell my hair that person cannot pull it?

It is my hair.

It is my head.

How do I tell my teeth they will never strike that person’s teeth?

How do I tell my thighs it does not matter what they do?

They are the tops of my legs.

They will fall apart.

How do I tell my back it must never wait for that person?

That person will not hold me.

That person does not know where I am, does not think of me.

Does not know I have exhausted every argument against him.

That person does not know I no longer love freedom.

That person does not know what it means when I ask for forgiveness.

That person does not know I beg the world to let me change.

That person cannot see my face.

Knows a woman with my name and she is a woman.

Does not know the word I hide behind my words.

Does not know this face.

Does not know this is my face.

Says my name and looks at this person.

How do I tell my feet to stand here?

How do I tell my eyes to see?

How do I tell the voice under my voice to keep on speaking?

How do I tell my mouth to speak?

BY AFAA MICHAEL WEAVER

after the painting by Brent Lynch

The humid nights are best and worst, best

because the birds sing at two in the morning when

you cannot get back into the other world, worst

because it is the moist heat that makes the skin supple,

makes you want to rub against someone else, a woman,

and there is nothing but the long list of lost chances,

things you could have said, perhaps the simple question 

of will you sleep with me so that it is not just you

and this shell of a home, this place where it feels

the walls are another layer of my skin, and that is neither

best or worst. It is the holding of the dead stink,

the memories that was over him, holding them back.

It is the utter singleness of being the only person

here, the way the thoughts think themselves down to

accepting that this is really just me here wondering who I am,

just me here wondering why I am awake at two,

which trigger it was, knowing all the time all too well

the way the war of life is connected to the nervous system

of the world, the ganglia of our shared horrors, either

mine so large, or so people tell me, and here it seems

to be the membrane between the skin of my bones

and the skin of this home, the absorbing shock of space

that gives when the memories burn their way in or

out of me. I would lie here wondering how to tell her

I am wrestling with the angel, wrestling with memories

in the crevices and cracks of my body, of how I feel

right now, what it felt like then, in those times, and I am

glad she is not here, and I wish she were here, and she

has no name because this is some woman I do not know.

I practice in the silence of my thoughts the different pitch

and rhythm of how I might ask will you sleep with me, 

afraid of what to say should she say yes and this decade

of my monkish life should lie open and I have to say why

I am sitting on the edge of the bed, why I have woke her from

the sweet smile I assume she has when I assume her horror

is smaller than mine.

BY EDUARDO C. CORRAL

          His beard: an avalanche of   honey,

                   an avalanche

of  thorns. In a bar too close to the Pacific,

                            he said, “I don’t love you,

               but not because I

couldn’t be attracted to you.” Liar—

                                     even my soul

is potbellied. Thinness,

         in my mind, equals the gay men

                                      on the nightly news.

        Kissed by death & public scorn.

The anchorman declaring,

                             “Weight loss is one

        of the first symptoms.” The Portuguese

have a word for imaginary, never-

                   to-be-experienced love.

                                      Whoop-de-doo.

        “I don’t love you,” he said.

The words flung him back—

                            in his eyes, I saw it—

         to another bar

where a woman sidestepped his desire.

                  Another hunger.

                                    Our friendship.

In tenth grade, weeks after

                             my first kiss, my mother

said, “You’re looking thinner.”

         That evening, I smuggled a cake

                                      into my room.

I ate it with my hands,

                   licked buttercream off

                            my thumbs until I puked.

         Desire with no future,

bitter longing—

                   I starve myself  by yearning

          for intimacy that doesn’t

                                        & won’t exist.

Holding hands on a ferry. Tracing,

                   with the tip of my tongue,

a  jawline. In a bar too close

                                to the Pacific, he said,

“I don’t love you, but not

          because I couldn’t be attracted to you.”

                                    His beard:

an avalanche of thorns,

                  an avalanche of honey.

BY MIRABAI

TRANSLATED BY JANE HIRSHFIELD

O friends, I am mad

with love, and no one sees.

My mattress is a sword-point,

how can I sleep

when the bed of my Beloved

is spread open elsewhere?

Only those who have felt the knife

can understand the wound,

only the jeweler

knows the nature of the Jewel.

I have lost it,

and though anguish takes me door to door

no doctor answers. 

Mira calls her Lord: O Dark One,

BY SHARON OLDS

I love the conversations we have

after making love—of course it’s just me, making

love to myself, talking to you,

loving you—though I do not really

know you, so I guess not loving you—

craving the dream of knowing you.

“When will I be able to scream with you?!”

I moan. “I am screaming, I am screaming,” I moan, very

quiet. Afterwards, breathing in

the fragrance on my fingers, I tell you that

I love the smell with a tender love, it is so

sweet, so nectar, as I’ve loved with a strong

love the smell of semen, with those

working animals in it,

those snapping rippling tails! I want

to go with you

somewhere I have not

been—and just lie, in a bed

for days, sometimes eat, sometimes

swim, I am so tired of not looking at you,

I want to gaze at you with a day-long

gaze. The barriers down! The doors off their

hinges! After coming, and coming,

as if with you, I miss you more.

I want you hour and hour in my line of

sight, I want to sing with you to

dance with you and sleep with you in the

BY MOIRA EGAN

Things happen when you drink too much mescal.

One night, with not enough food in my belly,

he kept on buying. I’m a girl who’ll fall

damn near in love with gratitude and, well, he

was hot and generous and so the least

that I could do was let him kiss me, hard

and soft and any way you want it, beast

and beauty, lime and salt–sweet Bacchus’s pards–

and when his friend showed up I felt so warm

and generous I let him kiss me too.

His buddy asked me if it was the worm

inside that makes me do the things I do.

I wasn’t sure which worm he meant, the one

BY LAUREN WHITEHEAD

Okay

Tell that to the palm

of this Black man’s hand

ever so slightly cupped

and carrying in its bend

the finger tips of another

Black man, both of them

arms stretching upward

toward the sky, measuring

their reach against one another

on a basketball court

in Brooklyn, in spring

Okay

Spring

And when I say spring

I mean bee-buzzing-near-a-pink-bud-

almost-bursting spring

tantric spring

everyone-outside-in-three-

quarter-sleeves-despite-the-virus-

buzzing-near-our-tongues

spring So you can’t tell me

it’s not sex Cause it’s not not sex

The risk of all this tenderness

all this giving of ourselves

all this inside on the outside

open, vulnerable I know sex

when I see it and I see it

everywhere: lips on the nipple

of a soft serve, an arm fist deep in

a grocery store shelf, digging

for the last can of garbanzo beans

It’s not not a ménage à trois

these three men snuggled

in the front seat of a moving

van, singing bachata

dancing from the hips up

in the window, open

throats open, their whole necks

to the wind, reckless

reckless, I tell you, full on

abandon So say what you will

about transmission

about fluid, skin to skin

about the necessary things

that make the deed the deed

I don’t care cause it’s spring

and I’ve never seen anything so intimate

as this touch still taken

BY ELIZABETH THERIOT

Head tilted back, eyes to the light, I squeeze single tears of moisturizer from the glass jar: forehead, cheek, cheek, a cross, martyr mystic blessing that promises to unblemish me.

//

After the hospital everyone brought facemask sheets. In meager bursts of human feeling I’d unpeel the wet paper cut into alien likenesses of a panda bear or cat. I’m not through them yet, gestures of wellness, I am working at them like a rosary, residue oily and chemical so I disobey the package’s advice and rinse my face. Yes okay I am refreshed, I am good, I am doing good.

//

I wish I had a tender nickname for myself. “Don’t believe it Lizzy” and “Lizzy you are perfect.” Anyone who used a nickname on me is long gone. I call myself worse things and I am still the company I keep, alive and unhappy. It’s not the being alive that makes me sad but the living part, my nerves so cliché and hysterical.

I fail to protest, compost, to write edgy poems about genitals, fail to scribe care onto my body, translate myself to myself, to stop lying, to know the lie, to build a marvelous cavernous boat and push its belly out to sea, to swallow anything, to sing.

//

In my mother’s bathtub I drink her syrupy $5 wine, squeeze pink goo from its envelope and smear the mask like sticky melted jellyfish debris on my face, wait, something to peel away in 20 minutes. Wine drips and disappears into the steamy water. My face tightens, is tightened around. All of it will come away beneath my nails.

BY JAMESON FITZPATRICK

I showed you the world so you might know

what it was like for me: to never see yourself, to subsist

on a diet of images of others, elsewhere.

Your curse was mine—I didn’t build

the tower on the island in the river

or hang myself before you there. I don’t have hands.

I couldn’t pass the time with weaving.

So I liked to watch you work the loom,

your tapestry a sort of group portrait

in which I resembled every shady character.

When you realized you weren’t trapped,

that two mirrors opposite each other only make it seem

there’s no way out, you didn’t spare me

a second thought. (Thanks, Lancelot!)

I missed the boat completely. But wasn’t left lonely—

when you brought the curse down so hard

upon yourself you shattered me, “I” became we.

We’ll be stuck in the tower forever, but we have a memory:

even more of us, in still smaller pieces, a place

the air is fresh and brine, a shore, our view opening