SYZYGY
I did not know even how to pronounce it.
sy-zy-ghee so I am told.
I'm no astronomer, so it never came into
my orbit until she said
"Now, you, and I, and she, are in syzygy."
I would have said a triangle.
Perhaps, a triad.
She said it means when three things are aligned.
Gave no further explanation.
When she left, I looked it up
"When three celestial bodies are almost aligned in a straight line."
I'm not sure if she meant it in a good way since
when the Earth, Moon, and Sun are in syzygy
it creates a total solar eclipse.
The Sun is setting in my window view.
Am I the Sun? Is she the Earth?
Is she the Moon blocking the way?
Charles Michaels
LOVE’S SCIENCE
I didn’t understand what you meant –
you, wildlife biologist – when you said
it’s not the life of the individual deer,
or eagle, or kingsnake that matters so much,
it’s the survival of the species. Maybe
I understood the logic, but not the heart.
Now that you’re gone, I find you
in your daughter’s heart, the stubborn logic
but spoken more gently.
On my morning walks now with our dog,
I find you in blackberry bramble,
the white tail-feather flit of spotted towhee,
the oak-woods flight of red-shafted flicker –
like the one I discovered as a massacre
told in feathers by our gate,
and was so grateful to see a living flicker
lift off from earth, sailing
into a live oak – the one that pelts us
with acorns, the tree that didn’t succumb
to last winter’s tremendous storms.
Taylor Graham
MIDPOINT
The candle you lit each year on July second was for her
but I did not notice the recurrence or ask about the flame
that you placed in the greenhouse near your lilies.
Once, as a teenager, I noticed you crying by that candle
and asked you why and you said "Because today is
the midpoint of the year. We have lost something,"
and I gave you a hug and you said "But we also have
another half of a year to be hopeful."
I was 22 years old the year your illness spread and
that July you told me that the candle was for the baby
you lost before me, my sister, also to be named Lily.
Every July since, I have lit a candle for her, for you,
and for me.
Lily Hana Hayashi
RIGHT TURN
We were little boys failing at
knot-tying and dropping flies.
Few spoken words between us
nerdy and invisible
kids, who later adopted
Hunter S. Thompson as God
before rebellion ended
and we slid off into grey.
Now the gun you carry lurks
like a subtle dormant threat
and makes me doubt memories
of our tacit, enduring
bond, our shared recollections,
and leaves me without a way
back to you, to us, just lost.
There are no marksman badges
in either of our attics.
Maybe an outfielder's glove.
Were there ever talismans
of half hitches and square knots?
Rob Friedman
DROWNING THE MONKEY
I was long aware of your half-empty cup-ness
I thought I saw you, but I didn't see it all
I didn't realize that after so many years
The cup was no longer just a cup or even a pitcher
But rather a vast ocean
Roiling with its inky tentacles
I knew you could swim
Trusted you could
But even strong swimmers tire
Especially when storms roll in
Sometimes one after the other
But what is a strong swimmer?
Physical strength can be measured
Even against a larger foe
But we are more than this
I knew you were more than this
More than skin and muscle
But you kept the other so close
You put up signs – KEEP OUT
And so, I did
Until those signs began to splinter
And then you let me in
Because you were spilling out
It was all spilling out
Years worth
Pain, hurt, anger
And fear – fear like salt in the ocean
Inseparable from the water
Corrosive, blinding, permeating
Immobilizing
Pulled under by this terrible thing
In your brain, in your thoughts- unshakeable
And now, slowly, shakily
The climb back
Each breath fragile, tentative
I want to pull you up and out
From the murk and pain of crushing despair
But we are sole swimmers in such things
As in death, as in birth
The oceans our own
But in your fight upward
I am here - arms outstretched, ready at the surface
My love unwavering
Terri J. Guttilla
UNCLE DICK’S FUNERAL
I had nine uncles, and now all of them are dead.
I didn’t know any of them well, but I heard stories
About my dad’s brothers, what a bunch of wild Irishmen
They were, moonshiners and party boys, whose stories
Are still being embellished by their grandsons, old men now,
Sitting on the bench at the fire house in the little Kansas town
Where they all grew up. My mother’s younger brother, Uncle Dick,
Was nothing like them. He was quiet and reserved,
Stunningly handsome, yet he didn’t seem to know
That he was. He had a wife who worshipped him,
But he hid from her most of the time in his basement
To be with his true loves, music and books.
He taught junior high band and choir during the day
And composed choral music at night. On the rare occasions
When I heard him sing, his mellow baritone voice sounded
Like the opera records I had heard. When one of his sons
Mangled his hand in a lawnmower, Uncle Dick was sick with grief
For days. My mother told me he hated violence and was a
Conscientious Objector during the War, but he served in the army
As a chaplain’s assistant, playing a portable organ for services
On the battlefields. I was about ten when I learned this news, and
I thought about it by myself for a long time. I concluded that
He must have been very brave to refuse to kill anyone, even our enemies,
When all the other patriots were enlisting for combat and probably
Calling him a coward. I didn’t see Uncle Dick often in my childhood, but
He was the only uncle who took the time to talk to me, his youngest niece,
And he loaned me one of his books once. He lived to be an old man
And was my last uncle to die.
The singer at his funeral wasn’t in Uncle Dick’s league,
But to my surprise, it was a military service, with flags,
And trumpets and real soldiers in uniform, carrying his casket.
Then an officer stood up and told this fantastical story about
Richard, rushing around in the Battle of the Bulge without
A weapon, pulling wounded soldiers from both sides to safety
And earning some fabulous medal for valor. Is he talking about my uncle?
I wondered. Why didn’t anyone in the family ever tell me this?
Were they still ashamed of his cowardice?
Rose Anna Higashi
THE DAD I DIDN'T KNOW
I thought I knew my father
Despite the fact my parents split
When I was very young
I knew he was an Irish alcoholic
Worked two jobs to make ends meet
Had cheated on my Mom
I knew he joined the army
Right after High School
Married Mom and went to war
I thought he was a simple man
Not prone to self-reflection
Would go wherever fortune took him
He'd been dead a dozen years before
I found a letter he had written to his brother
About a fiery plane crash just outside his base
How his men secured the site
While others put the dead in body bags
And medics tended to those still alive
Then, just last month, my cousin Liz
Sent me a poem he'd written years before
When he was diagnosed with bladder cancer
These two documents were raw and poignant
The product of a thoughtful mind --
A mind that processed pain on paper
It occurred to me - that's what I do
Skewer pain (my own and others) with a pen
Then, squeeze until a poem comes out
Perhaps, my Dad and I were more alike
Than I had seen before this chance discovery
Now, when I look in the mirror, I see parts of him
Frank Kelly
WHAT HAPPENED WITH YOU GUYS ANYWAY?
because what I heard was
you both walked away
from your unhappy marriages
two children each
to be with each other
that it started at work
the way it sometimes does
that you’d worked together
closely the kind of closely
that can sometimes lead to play
the kind of play that can
turn serious in a heartbeat
a head-tilt a glance then a glancing away
then a looking back again
a smile that turns suddenly hungry
which I heard it did
and it turned everyone against you
when they heard what you did
leaving your families for each other
but I want you to know
when I heard I was first of all
happy for you and maybe a little
titillated to think of you both
finding love among the cubicles
right there on the desk or maybe
under it on the floor
and when I heard the grumblings
and judgments and condemnations
I felt compelled to send you
that Hallmark card did you get it?
because Congratulations
seemed the right thing to say somehow
but then more recently I heard
that you’re not together anymore
or rather you’re still working together
but you’re not together together
and I thought to myself that’s gotta be hard
and I know it’s none of my business but
what happened with you guys anyway?
Paul Hostovsky
YOU CAN'T CATCH ME
Things I don’t know versus things I know or think I know; if this were to be a list, it would be longer than the arm of the law, which is an expression I do not know or understand. Whose arm are we talking about? Which lord or king had the longest arms? I have long arms, so I wear my shirt sleeves rolled up to make them and me look so-called normal. Monkey arms, my sisters teased. But they tease me about many things. They and their long-reaching stronghold power over me. HA! No longer, I cry; you can’t catch me. I know all about the Gingerbread man⸻ the hot ovens, how far and fast he had to run. It’s about magic. And timing. When to leave town. Gingerbread treats were first made for Elizabeth I of England; floured figures rolled, pressed, and presented in the likeness of her guests. It’s amazing what can be created in the name of power with wealth. I want a cookie that looks like me. I could bite my own tongue. Nibble away the day. Stand on one leg. You could eat my heart out. I’d know that without enough fat, I’d completely fall apart. That’s the way the cookie crumbles.
Patty Joslyn
THE SONG OF LIFE
"My grandad stays away from home.
He stays away to commune with beer.
My grandma doesn't want him here.
He comes back for money, to shout and swear.
The way he treats us is just not fair.
'I hope you don't have grandad's genes,
His penchant for dink and women of the night,
The way he behaves is just obscene.'
Dad tells me, and I assume he's right.
Grandad lives, now, in a different town.
Grandad seldom comes bawling around,
Anymore.
He stays away with a different family,
With new grandkids and his other wife.
He doesn't need us, apparently.
He's escaped, now, to his parallel life.
Grandad committed bigamy.
But, without my grandad, I wouldn't be me.
Without grandad, I wouldn't even be...
My grandad, still, within me sings,
Telling me bad people can do good things.
John Botterill
