Erin

The pedestal demands perfection
but the surface is slippery,
and it encourages sprained ankles.

To stay put, to stay perched
is to maintain a delicate balance
between anxiety and boredom
but it's safe

until you move a little
to the right, and then you
push against the wall
that holds you in your place,
immovable. Distant.

You lose your footing, you lose your place;
it might be miserable,
but it is yours.

It was mine.
and I'm exhausted.
I am worn out
and bruised
but already I can see
the benefits of feet on solid ground,
however unsteady:

There are no illusions here.

On Snow

by Amy

Under snow there is grass,
I’ve learned and relearned that each season, but
even now I can’t promise not to forget that.
In the morning, my friend comes to the door with
a shovel,
but I have no prize for him or his help,
I only offer warmth radiating from baskets of clothes made their way to my back,
false heat in contact with my diplomatic skin
that insists any slight thickening
of blood, or
sharpening of bone
have come from within,
such shame in mentioning someone coaxing light from my skin.

I should have helped clear a path,
but I’m best at the role of rapt wayfarer, shuffle strictly
just heel to toe,
while more snow joins the gleaming colony,
its metal conqueror with one steady wooden arm decides who can stay,
and how much goes.
More weight falls to the grass, my regret is mostly of spring,
I watered only when the grass started snapping under my bare feet,
only if it pinched
blonde hairs on my thigh when I’d surrender in summer
to space not quite mine.
Hadn’t gardened in years,
but complained of brittle grasses.
I let too many things both heavy and wet
fall to grounds that will joylessly, merely
accommodate it.

The faster kitchen works

or why you should never write poems about ideas
by mike swanberg


1.

mostly you circle the drain,
pull your hair across your face.
when i catch myself catching myself
in the mirror i try and look surprised

it's best not to say what a poem is going to be about
although all day my mind licked its chops for you
and i said "just this once you arent a dog"
and i meant that.

then an afternoon to forget what i should have been writing.
cold chicken/ iodized salt/ half glass of water/ forgotten apple.

if you get lucky the poem makes a late jump into the literal

i bump into my neighbor on the train
he wants to talk to me about self control
but he cant control himself enough not to

we shake hands hello
we shake hands goodbye
i tell him stop by any time

it feels like i should have sold him something.



2.

the street looked all bombed out today
and on the train someone talked about violence
from a distance

i watched a grown man with his arms out balance
up a jungle gym and then hop off pleased
i wanted to clap but my hands fell off in my pockets
holding tightly onto my phone

i wasnt expecting any calls but still
and since i already started ---> the difference
between poetry and lunch is saying iodized salt
instead of salt, forgotten apple instead of apple i forgot

wait, taste my fingers -- wait.

its almost winter and the squirrels will start holing up
in any crack they can find while the pigeons
still keep putting their jeweled necks on the line.