by Sixfold
polished soapstone figurines.
Among the lapis lazuli
likenesses of Osiris and Anubis, I waited,
grew tired, and rested my head
against a marble portico
of a room that led to forgotten souls
drifting in everlasting twilight.
Would my deliberate remembering
resurrect a vestige of you
from the static crypt?
You finally came to me
as the evening sun
filtering in through a skylight,
and gently brushed my cheek as I dozed.
That warm gesture was the same,
entirely benevolent force
which I had once known as you in life.
It was you who had once rendered
out of the vague concept of me
a solid silhouette
that still cuts a dry island
into the murky ocean of living death
and stands against the firmament,
a testament.
Your kiss had gifted me
a quickening, a start, a far-off end,
a will, an enthusiasm to live,
a reassurance that every new
dawning is possible, because I know
you are the same, boundless heart
that once evinced such light.
Though I still believe when you left
you were resolved to your semblances
of self-loathing and violent whim,
I won’t presume to condemn
the rent apart, toppled effigy
of who you once were to me
and who you became
lying in slabs;
blame doesn’t mend brokenness—
In forgiveness, death becomes artifice.
In my dreams, these symbols of non-life
are subsumed by time
and life and death become interchangeable.
Aren’t we all relics to be exhumed
and polished to flawlessness?
Though I conjure
these burnished, ghostly cyphers of your being,
they are no less solid, no less substantial,
than my own, chiseled breath;
you are surely no less precious to me
sequestered now
behind protective glass.
I Am Alabaster
I am alabaster, polished, translucent—
and I am ashes, tamped in hollows,
crushed between the breath of the living and the souls of the dead.
No one will tell me if I will survive.
As the blush of dawn unfurls over dunes
and seagulls soar on ocean thermals,
I break apart and scatter in the wind,
losing the border where everything else ends
and I begin.
Lighter than air, a cloud of me rises up
to speak to the hawk perched on a streetlamp
and tells her I am fine, because I don’t know how to talk
about not being fine—
besides, I am flying . . .
I want to be the best version of myself,
the beautiful one,
carved in lucent crystal and buffed to a shine,
so that my face will reflect your eyes,
which will be mine, crying,
because you have recognized the truth of me.
Specters of what was and what is
are ground into fine, dark cinders
amassing as shadows
beneath my alabaster feet,
while my crimson heart
yet thrums
with faith in what will be.
If I Saw Aidan Turner Walking Down the Street . . .
If I saw Aidan Turner walking down the street,
I would not stop to contemplate the earth beneath . . .
I would not for a second consider that I
was already in junior high when he was born,
or that my own daughter is now the age I was
when that brand new star-to-be emerged from the womb,
replete with a tuft of black curls, which I can’t help
but to surmise. My daughter views him in his full
adult glory—deep voice, dark eyes, just enough scruff
to pass as a vampire or Middle Earth heart-throb,
cloaked in black leather and adorable Irish
cadences wrapped about him like a lucky cloud.
My daughter is certain that she could reach him first—
fully trusting in her youthful abilities,
and in my usual habit to step aside
in favor of promoting her self-assurance.
I have not been tough enough on her in some ways—
for instance, I have not gone for a hard tackle,
stripping her of a ball at foot in one quick breath,
nor have I generally used my advantage
of momentum in everyday foot-races:
usually, I would feign a fall to foster
her sense of imperviousness to ill fortune;
in most cases, I would give her a head-start, but
if I saw Aidan Turner walking down the street,
I would at once utterly forget her youthful
sighs, her earnest blushing, her sweet, redolent gaze
transfixed in goofy stupefaction, innocent
through and through—the beauty of watching her feel
herself becoming a woman (through watching him
make love to cameras in a perfect balance
of feigned humility and stunning sex-appeal)
would extinguish in less than a blink of an eye.
The frightful scene that would ensue would estrange us,
my daughter and me, for a lifetime and a day—
such would be the nature of the abject horror
my actions would exact upon her fragile mien:
she would learn for certain that determination
does, in fact, pay handsomely . . . As for the handsome
Aidan Turner, hypothetically spotted
strutting blithely down the street by the likes of me—
the assault would surely mark a milestone for him.
Nicholas Petrone
Running Out of Space
Within the jurisdiction of the Atlantic’s salty breezes
the smooth meandering road
vanishes
gobbled up
consumed by expensive running shoes
dissolving into glare.
I can see to the subatomic level
I am intimately acquainted with the quasars
Erupting from each tiny aperture
of the blacktop galaxy.
Following the yellow line
I could run this walk this bike this
on my hands and knees crawl this from sea to sea
Oh infinite road
I utter
Shout
Proclaim clichés in your honor.
Or what if this shady curve
painted with gently dancing silhouettes
of scrubby crooked pines
is the whole road
the entire multiverse
or whatever they are calling it now?
I’d be okay with that
and can’t help wondering
whether we are naive
to expect another road around the bend
some infinite intersecting labyrinth
of highways . . .
It is more likely
that I am merely riding this piece of asphalt
like a treadmill in empty space
or at least it feels that way
as I stop for water.
Worlds Apart
A whole world is laid waste in the morning for a child to find. Evidence
of the murky underwater galaxy is everywher
e so unspectacular
as if every terrestrial plant and animal were vomited onto the surface of the moon
each day and curly-headed little aliens run to see
the funny bones of Aunt Clara and the tall grasses pureed by the long trip
through outer space
and ask what that smell is daddy.
The jogger who took our picture has never been to the bottom
and neither have I. We know nothing—we just came to Wellfleet for the oysters.
Those stupid clams have never seen the Grateful Dead.
The mollusks missed my daughter’s first words.
That jogger has never seen me naked
nor the mollusk.
untitled poem about rain
Rain is perfect
no matter how it d
r
o
p
s
where it
splatters.
rain drops
belong to no one.
We all daydream from similar quiet corners—
gray, always gray, solitary
but not unhappy.
When it rains I can breathe
When thunderstorms roll we hold our breath.
Sometimes a storm looks like night
feels like drifting opiate slumber.
The drops fall
They do not look for distraction
direction or definition
Rain sounds like rain. There is no metaphor.
Sometimes they die in puddles
are reborn
as ripples.
Sometimes they are lost in the ocean
Sometimes they zigzag race
or dance
on the window of cars when you are young
and the ride doesn’t seem so long.
Danielle C. Robinson
A Taste of Family Business
After grace, the head of the family squared her lap.
Using her semi-wrinkled, mahogany hand,
she selected the silver from the left of her plate.
She scooped and sliced the first servings on China.
Then she softly smiled while politely passing the collards
to her first daughter who is sweeter
than her plate of yams and southern tea.
Her only son is the chicken out of the group that
stirs up home-made laughter to choke up every soul in their seat.
Patiently waiting, the new generation
sat like macaroni and cheese until their turn.
Over the savors of spices,
the variety of cuisines dished out silence
followed by a series of traditional “Mmm mmm good!”
First chance, the first cousin sang a hymn;
The second cousin proposed on bended knee;
and the third cousin sat pretty in pink—
announcing the development of a new edition.
By this time, joy was dancing in circles—
limiting water the opportunity to feud with blood.
Then the head of the family spoke
of the past to connect with the future.
The strength of her voice sprinkled wisdom
and tough love with blended whole truths.
Then her sister displayed her buffet of sweetness.
And they were all gravy and well served.
Notes of the Day
This time.
Eyes didn’t go probing for water.
This time.
Stems hid and petals too.
But, it found roots.
Not by the bay,
but gradually sprouting at window.
PITTER, patter.
splash, SCATTER.
Creating musical notes as it fall side by side.
Pinging from the sky to pong the Earth.
Obstructing objects with showers
to satisfy yesterday’s thirst.
PITTER, patter.
splash, SCATTER.
Feeling of the cool and calm pelting me—
as it alarm others with rage in avenues.
Gifting some peace cupped by tea.
Enticing laborers the fancy of sleep.
PITTER, patter.
splash, SCATTER
Next time,
Eyes will hear the sun.
Birthstone
I am from a city of pain,
where few fathers neglect their daughters.
Broken sons are often slaughtered.
I am from the “All American City.”
A home, somewhat quite bold and witty that
centers a market house that stocked and sold slaves,
and the 82nd Airborne—salute to the “Home of the Brave”!
A history of indigenous cultures steered
and speared by the rear of Cape Fear.
Best interest in spring?
Honeysuckles and dogwoods—
plant fresh scent of precious moments of my childhood.
I am little gardenia in queue—
raised on Gardenia Avenue.
Streets over, eyes squint and zoom
before I enter my pink and white bedroom,
Drugs sold and women occasionally auction their souls.
“Don’t leave without permission and be careful”, Momma always told.
I am a pinched carat straight out of coal,
in between hidden smiles and tortured souls,
that barely diffuse “Thank You”—
in the mist of the city’s troubles and midnight blues.
I am from a legacy of struggle—
where doubt politely invite life to crumble,
generations of corruption and abuse,
spirits high off booze and drug residue,
slight education and lack of motivation,
extreme colorism and degradation,
family values shredded by grudges
and overdue monetary value.
Here, the birthplace of my genome,
Polished-upand shine for the city I call home.
Every Night Forever
Over burning candles,
sweet wine kissed our lips
as a chilly breeze circled us.
The sky owns no moon tonight
as our hands practice constellations resembling l-o-v-e.
Behind the taste of laughter,
warmth tickles our hearts.
As our eyes think of a dance,
we extend hands to confirm yes to:
Care for me to be the skyline with you?
Care for us to be those portraits in motion?
Care for me to be that jazz breathing in your ear?
Care for us to glow together for the rest of our lives?
May She Rise
To Dr. Maya Angelou
Above in the sky,
glistening over the lives of millions,
may she rise.
Hoisted proudly in the wind,
flaring and flapping freely
in the honor of all people.
may she rise.
Uncaged, fearless, and melodic
with
peace and hope under her wings,
may she rise.
Uprooted from oppression,
stemmed with elegance,
and of blooming beauty,
may she rise.
Fleeing cocoon,
dancing freely,
parading in majestic colors,
may she rise.
Like a soulful mezzo-soprano over an African drum,
joy to the world,
the words of a prayer,
a heart inhaling love,
and a spirit flown into heaven,
may she rise!
Meghan Kemp-Gee
A Rhyme Scheme
Your broken heart knows it’s about time,
a beat away from a healthy sense of play,
that you learned to ask for your own advice.
Please take a moment to fill out the form.
Now, all of the legalities aside,
listen close enough to realize
this is the kind of lie you could take pride in,
when truth writes itself from the outside in,
when you weave the wool pulled over your eyes
into sheep’s clothing and when, sheep-eyed,
you parade in wool rags rather wolfly worn,
or rather, rags washed in the same river twice.
Even broken hearts are right twice a day.
Listen close enough, and anything can rhyme.
Pantoum
The world unfolds itself at night.
It’s getting late, but I don’t mind.
This is a game I like to play.
I play these games to stay awake.
It’s getting late, but I don’t mind
explaining all the rules to you.
I play these games to stay awake,
and make the rules up as I go.
Explaining all the rules—to you,
that’s a game, too. You say I cheat
and make the rules up as I go.
I say we’ll do away with rules.
That’s a game too, you say. I cheat
at almost everything these days,
I say. We’ll do away with rules.
You let them in, they’ll eat away
at almost everything. These days
we keep them all at bay. At night
you let them in. They’ll eat away
what we don’t know we love. And yet
we keep them all at bay at night.