Mae We Post Poems

they are things that I do

in the dark

reaching for you

whoever you are

and

are you ready?”

Donald Justice

Elmaz Abinader

Keetja Kuipers

From her perch on the docent’s gloved wrist, she

watches us with the eyes of any creature handled too

much: featherless head a closed door, body a mask of

silence. In the steep twilight descending like the

backwards count of a nurse’s voice leading a patient

into unconsciousness, the handler explains to our

circle the generalities of the species—the turkey

vulture’s primary form of self-defense is the

regurgitation of semi-digested meat that is then

vomited onto a predator’s face—and the

particularities of this one, who had come to them with

a broken wing. I, too, have places on my body knitted

back together by unseen hands, scars laid while I slept

the sleep of the unknowing: one above the belly

button, and another below where two fingers must

have parted the dark hair before shaving a path. Does

she remember the first faces to peer toward her as she

surfaced? Every time I try to write what those hands

did, I end up plunging my own fingers deep inside

until I pull up the voice of the surgeon in post-op: I

usually have to pay women to take their clothes off for

me. Oh, the shudder of her black-feathered shoulders.

Rain Prud’homme-Cranford

We must have gills

hidden under keloid skin,

because sometimes we are too

tired from forging rivers, navigating

tides, and crossing gulfs.

I convince myself I can breathe underwater.

How else have we emerged from

Gulf loop currents and New Sargasso seas?

Traiteurs, Yukhiti Ipošok, Root-workers, Bean feasa,

and Alikchi speak in Kréyol-Mobilian currents to grandmothers

lost, tossed, and surfaced on Gulf shoals and riverbanks.

Yemaya, Šiwāt-Oket, Mélusine

Hvashi, and Mami Wata, lick tears—

Water-women swallowing salted prayer drops.

Give us salinity to float in the betweens.

Surrender to flood waters.

We could not be drowned—

so they sought to bind us

—land-locked.

But these songs dredge-up memories like water

pouring from spaces between soil and root, flood dry plains

lifting to carry me through the hurricane.

Speaking in polyvocal tongues center of eye calm

makes way for calamity. We know how to swim

holding our breath across generations.

You see, we do have gills …

It’s where we keep our stories.

Patrick Rosal

To Mary Rose

Here is our little yard

too small for a pool

or chickens let alone

a game of tag or touch

football Then

again this stub-

born patch

of crabgrass is just

big enough to get down

flat on our backs

with eyes wide open and face

the whole gray sky just

as a good drizzle

begins I know

we’ve had a monsoon

of grieving to do

which is why

I promise to lie

beside you

for as long as you like

or need

We’ll let our elbows

kiss under the downpour

until we’re soaked

like two huge nets

left

beside the sea

whose heavy old

ropes strain

stout with fish

If we had to we could

feed a multitude

with our sorrows

If we had to

we could name a loss

for every other

drop of rain All these

foreign flowers

you plant from pot

to plot

with muddy fingers

—passion, jasmine, tuberose—

we’ll sip

the dew from them

My darling here

is the door I promised

Here

is our broken bowl Here

my hands

In the home of our dreams

the windows open

in every

weather—doused

or dry—May we never

Julius C. Wright

1

There is a large crowd of young folks

Hurrying down the road;

They are going to have a picnic now,

And spread the news abroad.

2

They are wearing beautiful bouquets,

And carrying bright tin dippers;

New straw hats are waiving high,

And patent leather slippers.

3

Their hats are made of fine chiffon,

And decorated too.

There will be plenty of goodies

For your friends and for you.

4

They will have a big barbecue.

And a lot of other stuff.

They are going to eat and drink

Till everybody puff.

5

They will have cakes and candy by the heaps,

And ice cream pressed in cake;

Peanuts parched fresh and hot,

And a lot of fine milk shakes.

6

They will have fish croquets by the bushels,

And cocoanut jumbles too;

They are going to feed their friends and foes

And have enough for you.

7

They are going to have a big dance

And have a jolly time.

They want to show their handsome looks

Because they look so fine.

8

One barrel or two of lemonade,

Mixed all through with ice;

Lemons cut and thrown therein

Gee! it’s awful nice.

9

Of all the fun and jolities,

And all the places of rest,

Just go to an old picnic ground;

Dorothy Chan

For Norman

You visit me in a dream after passing,

after I’ve been awaiting you for weeks,

because Chinese belief teaches us our

loved ones will appear when we’re asleep.

It’s real when I enter the hotel restaurant

in the middle of nowhere town I live in,

as the Midwest architecture transforms

into Kowloon at evening time. We eat

bird’s nest soup, and I remember the time

my father ordered me this four-hundred-

year-old delicacy at Hong Kong airport.

Out comes the Peking duck, and I ask you:

“Why did it take you so long?” You answer:

Lucille Clifton

poets in their bassinets

dream a splendid woman holding over their baby eyes

a globe, shining with

possibility. someone,

she smiles, has to see this

and report it, and they

in their innocence

believing that all will be

as beautiful as she is,

whimper use me, use me

and oh how terrifying

jessica Care moore

Such a wild beauty

extracted from black ashes (echo)

A series of calculated crashes

I simply

call them romances.

I photograph you in my bed in the morning

I miss you and you never leave

Your scent remains, unbelievably

I pray to all the Gods

and my lies still don’t believe in me.

You dance inside the snow

Slush beneath your boots

We talk philosophy and hardcover books

Sometimes i find the heart you took and carry

It around, a handsome crook

A savior among a crown

of thorns and petals never worn

Of flowers dead and letters never sent

Did you see the way the summer wept

Did you feel my bones break

inside your hands

?

How fragile are the strong and mad

Who dare to wrap themselves in flags

Sewn by slaves and walked over graves (echo)

Jessica, you say, you must behave.

Yourself. I don’t know what to do with wealth

Cept spend it on a love affair or place bright flowers

In my hair.

Just tell me what color I should wear to a funeral

with no people there?

Bodies asleep deep in my chest

Kiss me, since we are all that’s left

In love, in fear, scared half to death

Humans aren’t so interesting my son insists

We have no wings. No power beyond our century

We are given less, and still we sing.

We dress the part

I keep the veil, and pawn the rings.

I want to steal Saul’s new hat and Dante’s bright green boots

My fashionable brothers.

You. Brooklyn bridge. I am hula hoop

Swirling dervish in a perfect suit

Oh my love, my memory swoons.

Such a wild beauty extracted from black ashes (echo)

A series of calculated crashes

I simply call them beautiful massive

Oh wait, I believe I wrote romances.

Protecting me from the brutality, the wounded savage

You, that’s me. Pointing fingers deliciously.

Baby, please hold onto me.

I only want love to hold me for ransom. I know he is.

They are all so handsome. Perhaps, a very good looking cancer.

I call your name, pray you don’t answer.

Such a wild