The Alphabet, for Naima

A is for almost, arriving, my father’s death.
B is for bear, which he does and does not do.
C is for care and critics and leaving them to their caskets.
D is for damn, which your father does not give but must.
E, for empire—a thing to impale, kill, break
Breach. F is for farther along we’ll understand why
Fire greets us at every door and we’ve lost our way
In the sky. Now where, where should we turn?
G is for good, the shy speechless sound of fruit
Falling from its tree. Me, you, there in the woods
Watching the pines shatter shadow in the light
Wind. H is for horses in the high cotton,
The crack in their hooves carrying your grandfather
And your grandfather’s grandfather down the hill
Until two stomps on the barn floor orphans them
Again, dust, dust. I is for in, as in in the blood we bear
All sorts of madness but bear, bear we must.
J is for jaundiced, which you never were.
K is for keep. Keep your wilderness wild, your caves neat.
L is lift and lymph, the node they cut
From beneath your grandfather’s arm.
M is for misery, which turns and breaks in
Though I wish it would not. Leaf
Leaning on a pond. Blood on a sock.
N is for nature and nearly and how I’ve come
To love; nearly, nearly I come to you, my falcon
Hood pulled tight; my talons tucked; Lord,
Let me not touch. O is for out and the owl
You say sits on your nose. P is for please
As in “Please, son, don’t visit me”
And yet I visited and did not please, and he would not
Touch your leaf, afraid his rot would
Make the petals fall. A lovely love—
No, not at all. Q is for quince, its yellow-breasted
Bell knocking against my father’s deathbed
Window, the light, the light too on his dying
Bed, what you opened your mouth to and tried
To swallow. R is for road where we lay,
Sometimes, because we wish not to exist
And wish and wish and wish. And must.
S is for…

Roger Reeves

Lost in American

Among the killings. Among the permits. Among the dull transparency.
Among the hunger. Among the family beyond my reach. Among the
labor pool. Among that type of bread. Among the registered voters,
among the paperless statements. Among the eye of the beholder. I’m
lost among your ethics. Among New World glossaries. Among the
pages of windows. I’m lost inside your mesosphere on what’s toxic
and what’s not — in America. I am certainly lost at the political match.
Among recurring wars no one dares to injure on the ride home.
Among the ink tracking, MY GOD, new moods helping to reimagine
a world beyond the sunrise. Among the maps they used to leave in our
hair. “Celia got away, bad hip and all.” Among electronic billboards
jammed with the Black faces of runaways, don’t call this toll-free
number if you see her armed and dangerous, healing from the law.
Among marijuana fields owned by the same old same old. Against the
embargo of time.

Nikki Wallschlaeger

One Art

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster.

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother’s watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three loved houses went.
The art of losing isn’t hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn’t a disaster.

—Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan’t have lied. It’s evident
the art of losing’s not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) like disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop

Thank You, My Sweetest Valentine

Thank you for being my lifelong partner
Thank you for being my strong anchor
Thank you for all your love and support
Thank you for picking me up when I fall short
Thank you for all your sacrifices
Thank you for all your sound advices
Thank you for everything you do for our family
Thank you for your bottomless generosity
Thank you for always keeping it real with me

Donny Trương

The Ruins

Unprepossessing girl in the café recognized me as the author of two books

before this and asked for my advice, I said

each line has been an accident, staring at the texture

of the plaster on the wall behind her, rivulets cords tendons the lines may stand

if I remove myself, my will ruins it I might not have said that and

recalling exactly what I said would help, I wait for it though waiting

can be a mistake that generates willfulness, I struggled to put this into words

as strong as my conviction, so what advice could I give you I said

Jana Prikryl

How Kind

How kind of you
to turn it down
to crickets, the possible is here
in every judgment I try on
against myself, if you enjoy
a more original surmise
then too I grow
acquainted with regret

Jana Prikryl

Birthday

If the sky is such a cliché
Why is it falling?

If the tree is such a cliché,
Why is it dying

If soul is such a cliché
Where is it hiding

If love is such a cliché
Why isn’t there enough to go around.

For my part
I can’t get enough of the sky.

For my part, I can’t wait
For those leaves to come back.

For my party
I am inviting the clown Love

For my birthday I want a cake
Revealing the color of my soul.

Ana Božičević

Bitter Song

Nothing troubles my being, but I am sad.
Something slow and dark strikes me,
though just behind this agony,
I have held the stars in my hand.

It must be the caress of the useless,
the unending sadness of being a poet,
of singing and singing, without breaking
the greatest tragedy of existence.

To be and not want to be … that’s the motto,
the battle that exhausts all expectation,
to find, when the soul is almost dead,
that the miserable body still has strength.

Forgive me, oh love, if I do not name you!
Apart from your song I am dry wing.
Death and I sleep together…
Only when I sing to you, I awake.

Julia de Burgos (Translated by Jack Agüeros)

Soulwork

One’s is to feed. One’s is to cleave.
One’s to be doubled over under greed.
One’s is strife. One’s to be strangled by life.
One’s to be called and to rise.
One’s to stare fire in the eye.
One’s is bondage to pleasure.
One’s to be held captive by power.
One’s to drive a nation to its naked knees
in war. One’s is the rapture of stolen hours.
One’s to be called yet cower.
One’s is to defend the dead.
One’s to suffer until ego is shed.
One’s is to dribble the nectar of evil.
One’s but to roll a stone up a hill.
One’s to crouch low
over damp kindling in deep snow
coaxing the thin plume
of cautious smoke.
One’s is only to shiver.
One’s is only to blow.

Tracy K. Smith

A Far Country

Beyond the cities I have seen,
Beyond the wrack and din,
There is a wide and fair demesne
Where I have never been.

Away from desert wastes of greed,
Over the peaks of pride,
Across the seas of mortal need
Its citizens abide.

And through the distance though I see
How stern must be the fare,
My feet are ever fain to be
Upon the journey there.

In that far land the only school
The dwellers all attend
Is built upon the Golden Rule,
And man to man is friend.

No war is there nor war’s distress,
But truth and love increase—
It is a realm of pleasantness,
And all her paths are peace.

Leslie Pinckney Hill

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