Cul-De-Sac by Andrea Cohen

Cul-De-Sac

Like all tyrants,

my mother made

decrees. The last

straw was the law

that said: no frogs

inside the house.

The lousy universe!

I was seven and ready

to flee with nothing. At

least take a sandwich,

my mother said,

tucking a foil brick

into the kerchief

I’d tied to a stick. I

was a real hobo.

I barely watched her

watch me walk off.

I got all the way

to the cul-de-sac

and sat down to eat.

It was a sandwich

full of grief––

grief and salt,

grief and tomatoes,

grief and cheese.

How far into

far did I go?

How is it

my glass of milk

was still cold

when I got home?

Still Life with Rose by Richard Scott

Still Life with Rose

 

Like a foreskin being pulled back, the damask 

reveals – pelvic bowl of pink-fringed shadow, 

dense sweet-meat bloom, coral’d cave, puce 

empyrean with no vanishing point, planetary blush! 

So let me in – where everything is new-born 

and crystalline, paused and protected – into that other 

world, that high-shine place of safety, arranged 

and sparking up like a bower. Almost every day, 

for some moments, I think about him – the black 

stems, thorns that can prick so deeply, whorl 

of serrated leaves, all just beneath, around – still 

gorgeousness – your petal’d cumulus, your constancy – 

helps me live. O rose keep on stunning for me – 

for all us boys who have been ruined by men.

I Dare You by Dorianne Laux

I Dare You

 

It’s autumn, and we’re getting rid

of books, getting ready to retire,

to move some place smaller, more

manageable. We’re living in reverse,

age-proofing the new house, nothing

on the floors to trip over, no hindrances

to the slowed mechanisms of our bodies,

a small table for two. Our world is

shrinking, our closets mostly empty,

gone the tight skirts and dancing shoes,

the bells and whistles. Now, when

someone comes to visit and admires

our complete works of Shakespeare,

the hawk feather in the open dictionary,

the iron angel on a shelf, we say

take them. This is the most important

time of all, the age of divestment,

knowing what we leave behind is

like the fragrance of blossoming trees

that grows stronger after

you’ve passed them, breathing

them in for a moment before

breathing them out. An ordinary

Tuesday when one of you says

I dare you, and the other one

just laughs.

 

It’s autumn, and we’re getting rid

of books, getting ready to retire,

to move some place smaller, more

manageable. We’re living in reverse,

age-proofing the new house, nothing

on the floors to trip over, no hindrances

to the slowed mechanisms of our bodies,

a small table for two. Our world is

shrinking, our closets mostly empty,

gone the tight skirts and dancing shoes,

the bells and whistles. Now, when

someone comes to visit and admires

our complete works of Shakespeare,

the hawk feather in the open dictionary,

the iron angel on a shelf, we say

take them. This is the most important

time of all, the age of divestment,

knowing what we leave behind is

like the fragrance of blossoming trees

that grows stronger after

you’ve passed them, breathing

them in for a moment before

breathing them out. An ordinary

Tuesday when one of you says

I dare you, and the other one

just laughs.

You Want Me Pale by Alfonsina Storni

You Want Me Pale

 

You want me pale,

Made of sea foam,

A mother of pearl.

Made of white lily,

Untouched among the others.

Made of thinning perfume.

Petals sealed.

 

Not touched by moonbeams,

Not called 'sister' by the daisies.

You want me like snow,

You want me white,

You want me pale.

 

You have had all

The cups in your hands,

Flowing fruit and honey,

Staining your lips dark.

You have been in the banquet

Laced with grapevines,

Relinquishing your meat,

Reveling in Bacchus.

You have been in the gardens,

Black with deception,

Wearing red and

Running into ruin.

 

You have kept your

Skeleton intact, and by

Miracles I do not know,

Still expect me to be white

(God forgive you for it),

Still expect me to be spotless

(God forgive you for it),

Still expect me to be pale.

 

So flee into the woods,

Run into the mountains;

Clean your mouth;

Live in a cottage;

Touch the damp earth

With your hands;

Nourish your body with

The bitter root;

Drink, like Moses,

From the rocks;

Sleep upon the frost;

Rejuvenate your flesh

With saltpetre and water;

Speak with the birds,

Rise with the sun.

And when your body

Has returned to you,

When it's become entangled

In the bedroom of your soul,

Only then, good man,

Can you expect me to be pale,

Expect me to be snow,

Expect me to be untouched.

 

(Translated from the Spanish by Sarah Fletcher)

We Wait by Adam Zagajewski

We Wait

One afternoon

Alfred Cortot plays Chopin

but only on a record

So what

There is eternity

There is delicacy

and dark powers

that drowse

We all wait

what comes next

There is eternity

but it ends soon

Sounds are lightning strokes

they can’t be stopped

We can be stopped

just like that

stop

(Translated by Clare Cavanagh)

My Aunts by Adam Zagajewski

My Aunts

 

Always caught up in what they called 

the practical side of life 

(theory was for Plato), 

up to their elbows in furniture, in bedding, 

in cupboards and kitchen gardens,

they never neglected the lavender sachets 

that turned a linen closet to a meadow. 

 

The practical side of life, 

like the Moon’s unlighted face, 

didn’t lack for mysteries; 

when Christmastime drew near, 

life became pure praxis 

and resided temporarily in hallways, 

took refuge in suitcases and satchels. 

 

And when somebody died--it happened 

even in our family, alas—

my aunts, preoccupied

with death’s practical side, 

forgot at last about the lavender,

whose frantic scent bloomed selflessly 

beneath a heavy snow of sheets.

Don’t just do something, sit there.

And so I have, so I have,

                    the seasons curling around me like smoke,

Gone to the end of the earth and back without sound.

(Translated by Clare Cavanagh)

Without by Joy Harjo

Without

The world will keep trudging through time without us

When we lift from the story contest to fly home

We will be as falling stars to those watching from the edge

Of grief and heartbreak

Maybe then we will see the design of the two-minded creature

And know why half the world fights righteously for greedy masters

And the other half is nailing it all back together

Through the smoke of cooking fires, lovers’ trysts, and endless

Human industry—

Maybe then, beloved rascal

We will find each other again in the timeless weave of breathing

We will sit under the trees in the shadow of earth sorrows

Watch hyenas drink rain, and laugh.