September 26, 2023

Arthur Russell

SUMMER AFTERNOON

With a bucket of sealant and a spent mop on a slow day,
my father sent Prince McMichael and me to muck the buckled seams
 
along the carpet rolls of pebbled roofing winter freeze and thaw left leaking.
I watched him swab the tar around the skylights and scuppers,
 
and asked him about his life, what he wanted, why he worked at the car wash.
It was my boss’s son privilege to do so.
 
He said he didn’t care what work he did, the older men were drunks
who wasted their money on the numbers. He jabbed his blackened mop
 
for punctuation. He called women bitches, but it was women
he cared about most. He lived with his moms, his sister, and her son.
 
When the sealant was used up, we sat on the parapet where the roof
looked out over Konwaler’s Drugs to the white brick row houses on East 8th.
 
We smoked unfiltered cigarettes. Below us, the cars turned into the car wash.
I asked him why he hadn’t come to work the day before.
 
He said he’d hung out with his moms, his sister, and her son all morning
and waited for a girl all afternoon at the entrance to the Union Avenue station.
 
He’d talked to her the night before, but he didn’t know where she lived,
only that she worked in Manhattan and got off at five.
 
It seemed to me an inconceivable romantic strategy to take a day off from work
on such a thin hope, and yet I could imagine him in the guayabera he changed into after work,
 
with his hair picked to a smooth dome and a cigarette dangling from his mouth,
passing a calm hour with one foot up on the rail around the subway entrance.
 
I started to tell him about the woman in Syracuse who’d cheated on her husband
with me, but he showed no interest.
 

from At the Car Wash
2023 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

__________

Arthur Russell: “I thought I could escape my father and his car wash in Brooklyn, run away to Manhattan and succeed as an actor or as a writer and never have to reckon, as an adult, with his cruel opinions of people and the world, but I fell back into his orbit and worked closely with him for many years, and when I did escape, it was only through the door that led to law school, the profession he had chosen for all three of his children, possibly because he had dropped out of law school himself. At the Car Wash is a book of poems written over the last eight years, poems that I continue writing beyond the work between these covers, dredging, sorting, reordering and sometimes celebrating, but always reckoning, almost forty years on, with the reckoning that made me.”

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April 6, 2023

John W. Evans

FIRELINE

And when I heard the two cabins might burn down
at the same time, on maybe even the same day,
I rooted for the fire. Like many Californians
 
I followed with great precision and attention 
the interactive, up-to-the-minute digital maps
that showed a progression of devastation past the water’s edge 
 
of the popular tourist destination
where my ex-wife’s family
had leased summer cabins since the 1920s, 
 
where even that spring they had gathered to enjoy 
the beautiful, pristine wilderness
of land the state said belonged to no one.
 
It was a technicality, that
outrageous claim renewed every ten years
by legacy, a claim I had once enjoyed
 
in an elaborate festival of coming together
we called a marriage: ten years,
then somehow faster and less forgiving
 
the controlled burn of divorce
that took it back. It only took a few months 
to reach the woods and the lake. 
 
The second cabin was half the size of the first 
and much closer to the fireline.
All it had to do was catch
 
one spark near the composting toilet
and the surroundings cabins would tremble. Unfair,
that spark that every day kept not catching,
 
as fist-sized embers crowned the trees.
It was the old growth. I knew they’d fight the hardest.
I had fought against it for years, the impossibility 
 
we might still love each other. We might reclaim together 
the thing she did not want me to have. So
I imagined it myself. Every day the fire took a little more: 
 
Great-Grandma Pummie’s game trophies,
Uncle Chum’s Turkish rugs, Puck’s first editions,
all swept up into the pyro-cumulus and out across state line,
 
with every last remnant of these families and what they cherished.
But the redwood decks and lead-glass windows, 
the rockfalls and surrounding acres of old-growth forest
 
hung in, as sturdy as my dog’s chin on my knee.
He watched me watch the screen. When it was time
to walk, the sky had changed to orange, then blue. 
 
Then, the wind shifted, capricious and weary of the granite. 
The people returned. Their cabins were there. 
In the city around the lake bears had broken in
 
and filled their bellies
with syrup and thawed steaks,
an early hibernation, a carcass every few yards
 
stuck in the mud with singed or infected paws. 
Who is left to love what is gone 
if it belongs to no one else;
 
who dares warm his hands over the ash
or rub his chest with the spite-tongued black, 
murmuring, Mine, still mine. You do not belong to someone else.
 

from The Fight Journal

__________

John W. Evans: “I wrote the poems in The Fight Journal to make sense of an experience about which I felt strongly biased: my divorce. I wanted to recognize the humanity of all involved on the page because this was something I struggled to do in real life. I hoped to find closure, healing, and an answer to two questions. Why had my marriage failed? How had I been complicit in that failure? Adrienne Rich’s ‘From An Old House in America’ was the formal model for the long title poem. Marta Tikkanen’s ‘The Love Story of the Century’ was a precedent for writing about these dynamics. Both poems are personal favorites.” (web)

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March 2, 2023

John W. Evans

MUSICIANS AT THE WEDDING

All week at the wedding
the musicians keep practicing
 
over the garage, during the rehearsal,
in the basement at night,
 
on the back porch while it rains.
Even the grass after the rain
 
worries someone in the kitchen.
The tables and caterers, the flowers
 
and the muddy road to the barn
are covered in lights. This is a good time,
 
someone says, to take five, guys,
or fifty. The musicians are soggy, too.
 
They start again: five or six bars
of the bridal march, the chorus, the last encore.
 
On the porch a bartender is humming
the first dance as he bins the ice and juices,
 
orange and lemon. His cherries
are staked on tiny plastic swords
 
the wedding guests will make a great show
of plucking hilt-first.
 
They stand en garde,
a warning term in fencing,
 
the first sport played in the Olympics.
In the original en garde position fencers
 
held their back hand in the air
to lift lanterns during duels.
 
Back and forth to the bar the guests
litter the grass with broken promises.
 
This is what happens when you fall
in love: you dance all night, you collapse
 
for one reason or another
into the wet grass.
 

from The Fight Journal

__________

John W. Evans: “I wrote the poems in The Fight Journal to make sense of an experience about which I felt strongly biased: my divorce. I wanted to recognize the humanity of all involved on the page because this was something I struggled to do in real life. I hoped to find closure, healing, and an answer to two questions. Why had my marriage failed? How had I been complicit in that failure? Adrienne Rich’s “From An Old House in America” was the formal model for the long title poem. Marta Tikkanen’s ‘The Love Story of the Century’ was a precedent for writing about these dynamics. Both poems are personal favorites.” (web)

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February 2, 2023

CooXooEii Black

MY UNCLE TEACHES ME ABOUT PRAYER

the early blue-sky bird sings
and in my half-sleep i say
hohou!
my uncle taught me “thank you”
is prayer in and of itself.
 
the first sip of morning coffee,
a long day’s work, a rise-before-the-sun hunt,
old country, and pepsi cans.
hohou!
 
the russian olive tree
reveals yellow flowers
against red bark.
tribal workers leave early,
a slow evening.
hohou hohou!
in the distance a dog,
always a dog barking,
you come to hear one
even if there isn’t.
 
my uncle asks for help.
a tool, a truck,
some money, or laughter.
after hitting an animal
with his gold 1990s hyundai,
i give him gold duct tape.
 
the dragging part of his front bumper
taped up by a star.
hohou hohou!
us arapahos always use symmetry in our art, he says.
 
the sun sneaks behind the mountain
as someone tells a joke.
everyone erupts into laughter.
there’s water ambiance just beyond the road.
kids swim in a ditch
and it flows green and alive.
no, wait.
it’s a river.
hohou hohou!
 
my cousin is tired of the rust
eating his bike.
i offer him the gold duct tape to cover his frame.
hohou hohou!
he says, partly to me,
partly to God because he provided again.
it won’t stay golden forever i tell him
but right now it looks bright
in the moon’s budding grey.
 

from The Morning You Saw a Train of Stars Streaking Across the Sky

__________

CooXooEii Black: “I’ve always been interested in emotionally compelling stories, whether it was music, movies, or tv. I constantly got into trouble in elementary school for telling stories, singing songs, and acting. Then in high school, I watched a spoken word video, and for the first time, I found a medium that incorporated everything I love to do. So I put a few images down on a page, and I haven’t stopped since. Because it was God who gave me the ability to write, I daily return it to Him as a form of worship.” (web)

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January 12, 2023

CooXooEii Black

THE MORNING YOU SAW A TRAIN OF STARS STREAKING ACROSS THE SKY

five years and you forgot
the excitement of being on a mountain.
early morning, before the hunt, blurred hours
between night and day. the crickets chilled
in silence. sheep ridge lay in front of you.
you forgot the sensation of waiting on the sun.
when its light-blue floods over the mountain
and mixes with the dark, everything seems
to ask for the lead.
 
for the first time, you drove your own truck
with your uncle in the passenger seat. you remember
your first gun shot, elk drop,
sip of beer, fish caught, and war-whoop.
your uncle present for all.
a small moment, sure, to be driving him
but you’re proving your coming of age.
 
he’s told you about your dad.
said he’s a cool dude. that they text from time to time.
he told you about cali and you can’t imagine
your uncle in the city. you can’t imagine
being with anyone on the mountain except this man
who used to parachute into smoke for a living.
 
those mountains are ruthless to the clueless.
you ask your uncle how he learned his way
around them. you asked and you asked and you asked.
he said be prepared to see anything.
so from that moment forward you fixed your eyes
onto the barely warming sky, your family,
your people, younger siblings,
your reservation, and every figure
that has become a father, and you wait
for the coming miracles.
 

from The Morning You Saw a Train of Stars Streaking Across the Sky

__________

CooXooEii Black: “I’ve always been interested in emotionally compelling stories, whether it was music, movies, or tv. I constantly got into trouble in elementary school for telling stories, singing songs, and acting. Then in high school, I watched a spoken word video, and for the first time, I found a medium that incorporated everything I love to do. So I put a few images down on a page, and I haven’t stopped since. Because it was God who gave me the ability to write, I daily return it to Him as a form of worship.” (web)

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December 15, 2022

CooXooEii Black

MY UNCLE ASKED

can you write about me?
tell your readers i was the last
ndn to stand on that rock before they blasted
crazy horse’s face into its cracks and flat slopes.
 
my war scars wrap my ribs
all the way to my back, up my shoulder.
tell them i never ran when dudes acted tough.
 
write about the time i smacked
my head on the backboard
during high school. all my fans said i leaped so high,
higher than any ndn before.
it’s funny, spam was the only thing in my diet.
 
i flew through the air like a bat, i was athletic.
strong man. trust me i was strong.
no workout plan, just big weight.
under all this fat is the strength.
 
i only ride bareback. let your readers know.
i don’t like how the straps wear a horse’s fur.
mention my solo memorial ride
over togwotee pass.
 
tell them i’m a man of faith.
it was the pastor’s altar call
when Jesus entered my life.
i was bad growing up. now i lay
a different kind of hand.
 
never one to masquerade.
i know all the traditional dances and songs.
i know this ain’t a test
but will my story pass?
is it strong or will it collapse?
 

from The Morning You Saw a Train of Stars Streaking Across the Sky

__________

CooXooEii Black: “I’ve always been interested in emotionally compelling stories, whether it was music, movies, or tv. I constantly got into trouble in elementary school for telling stories, singing songs, and acting. Then in high school, I watched a spoken word video, and for the first time, I found a medium that incorporated everything I love to do. So I put a few images down on a page, and I haven’t stopped since. Because it was God who gave me the ability to write, I daily return it to Him as a form of worship.” (web)

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October 12, 2022

Michael Mark

SPARROW

What did you eat today, Mom?
She says tuna.
 
The correct answer is crust from a lemon
pound cake she shredded with her chewed fingers
then puzzled together. 
 
Is it night or day, Mom?
 
The window shades are pulled. People look
in, she thinks. Sometimes she peeks
from a corner to tell me. Not today.
 
How old are you, Mom?
 
What’s this color?
 
I steady her on the bathroom scale.
What do you think you weigh, Mom?
Like a bird, she answers.
 
79 pounds.
 
I tuck her clothes but there’s nothing
to hold onto. She cries the belt is breaking her;
she sticks herself undoing the safety pins.
 
What’s smaller than extra small?
This question’s meant for me.
 
Like a bird, she answers.
 

from Visiting Her in Queens Is More Enlightening than a Month in a Monastery in Tibet
2022 Rattle Chapbook Prize Winner

__________

Michael Mark: “I think of this collection as a family photo album. As my mother’s dementia progresses, each poem is at once a snapshot, a foreshadowing and a memory. And like memories, each is revealing, accurate, and blurry.​” (web)

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