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Tuesday, September 24, 2013

Tócame, illustrated by Gitty Duncan


Tócame
            After Karl Frost


Anticipation butters my skin
like a hot skillet jumping garlic.
You’re going to touch me and take me in.
How slowness makes our thoughts come so quick!
When our bodies meet—what will happen?

We cook a harmonious conflict:
If chilies strike, honey blocks. Who wins?
Never mind. Measuring’s an ape trick.
Instead, let’s will the soup to simmer.
I’ve pushed the meat back and seen the bone.

Your shades were parted, and your windows
stood clear. Then, through my reflected face,
I saw your greenest wishes glinting
as my shadows passed inside your space.
Your truth is true, my dear heretic:

We’re ready to slough the carapace
and let our whole bodies take the feast.

by Gitty Duncan

Friday, September 20, 2013

Hold that time, illustrated by Gitty Duncan



Hold that time


“Meet me in St. Louis, Louis…”
If my seven-year-old daughter
were a U.S. year, she would be
1947. Summer.
While the movie’s a slog to me,

she is transported on Garland’s
Technicolor eyes to a time
cradled tenderly in the arms
of a later time that used film
as a salve and an opiate.

Maybe she won’t find out how glum
Judy became. The plot’s struggles,
in retrospect, are quick to dim.
When we watch the “Making of…” reel,
it opens with clips of bombers.

Instead we steer on Google to
The Fair and Liza Minnelli.



Friday, September 13, 2013

We agree, illustrated by Ben Walker

By Ben Walker

-for L


Bring our wedding cake topper onto The Antique Road Show.
The expert will turn it on a felt-topped folding table
with restrained enthusiasm about its monogram,
filigree, pedigree and, at last, its je ne sais quoi.
Though we’re amateurs, the verdict’s dramatic: Best In Show.

Yes, look at us now: in bed watching TV on a Tuesday,
adrift in tea, blankets and the broad seas of regular
passing among office, practice and kindergarten days.
Far from the wedding where we wept our joy, we land weary
with few words some nights, some nights a slight furrow in the brow.

The patina deepens on the worthy thing we have here
in the flats and troughs equally as in the barnburners
and breakers. By now we know we’ll look, and it will appear
on the altar where we tend to it, sprouted and burnished,
ever the bright prize we seized together before the gray.

Under its still, resounding presence, think of all we’ve born.
It’s always here, dear, our golden little tabernacle.




Friday, September 6, 2013

The Half Of It illustrated by Joe Kowalczyk


The Half Of It  illustrated by Joe Kowalczyk




“It’s human as a human eyeball,”
she says, “to fumble our deep knowledge
that the empty sky is teeming full
beyond our view, and the oceans—huge
and crowded—go all the way down.

From the earliest age, we’ve drawn trees
as trunk, branches and leaves—never mind
the alleged subterranean
activities, the unseen details
we gloss over—it’s natural. But

we don’t remind ourselves we forget.
One practice,” she says, “is to wake up
with the intention of extending
ourselves into what we don’t perceive,
letting our actions cross that blind edge

into those other realms. How will we
then modify what we do daily?”