December 2, 2023

Megan Sexton

IN FAVOR OF UNION

“The steady evolution of the language seems to favor union—two words eventually become one usually after a period of hyphenation.”
—Strunk & White

I remember that brief period of hyphenation.
When separate cups held each of our toothbrushes,
and they bowed to one another honorably from across the vanity.
Now they nuzzle bristle to bristle, germ to germ, in the same cup
like so many words, each one suitable enough on its own—take bed’s
monosyllabic brevity and slide it next to chamber’s Old French spookiness
to make bedchamber and suddenly I’m thinking of swains and maidens and
European linens with extreme thread counts
and you and me, way beyond hyphenation, fused under the bedclothes.

from Rattle #40, Summer 2013

__________

Megan Sexton: “When Maira Kalman’s illustrated Elements of Style came out a few years ago, I was in ecstasy. One of the passages she chose to highlight led me to write ‘In Favor of Union’—I also was thinking about my friend Caroline’s comment from many years ago. She said that she knew that she and her boyfriend were going to last when she saw their underwear comingling on the hardwood floor. Writing poetry is so much fun; that’s one of the main reasons why I do it.”

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September 7, 2023

Emily Montgomery

SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL

for Chris

I wanted to save something beautiful for you.
The last three jewels of glistening pomegranate
balanced in the palm of my hand before I ate them.
The morning birdsong in the lemon tree after you left for work,
the memory of last night’s rain still written on the lawn.
Or earlier, the haunting roundness of the moon
over the canyon just before dawn when I couldn’t sleep,
standing at the window, looking back at you, your body
floating in the watery moonlight of our sheets.
I mean something really beautiful, my love.
The stillness in the house after the washing machine
ceased to hum. The last line from a slender book of poems,
a hardback from the library barely worn, repeated aloud for you,
its bitter sweetness still lingering on my tongue.
Or the way the baby slept so deeply while I read,
burying himself in the secret scent of his favorite blanket.
One arm thrown across that woolen teddy my mother gave us
in those final weeks of waiting before his birth.
The other hand open wide, fingers outstretched in a dancer’s
graceful, expectant pose. I wanted to save all of this for you.
But I couldn’t. It didn’t last. It never does.
That brief moment of grace when the ordinary shines so exquisitely.
At the end of the day you will return to us, as you always do,
and we will both be tired, empty, distracted, spent.
Everything more chaotic, more fragile, than when you left.

from Rattle #43, Spring 2014
Tribute to Love Poems

__________

Emily Montgomery died of cancer December 3rd, 2012, at the age of 34. She is deeply missed by her husband Chris Wakeham; her son, Miles; her daughter, Eloise, born eleven weeks early due to Emily’s illness; her mother; and her many, many friends. A romantic at heart, Emily captured the fleeting beauty and poignancy of daily life in her poetry.

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May 6, 2023

James Davis May

NOSTOS

We had not quite been arguing
that night—but talking, discussing
how I answer any mood of yours
that falls below cheery contentment
with a litany of solutions,
as if trying to help you find
the right word for a crossword puzzle.
Sometimes the heart wants to be sad
and say so and be heard, you said,
or seemed to be saying,
as we followed our dogs out the door
into the yard, the carport light
startling awake at our presence
and then nodding off again.
You’ll remember that it was late,
our neighbors hours into sleep,
so we spoke softly even as we began
to really argue, this time
about who locked the door
on our way out. You’ll remember
that we gave up our prosecutions
when we realized one of us
had to hold the brittle ladder
while the other climbed to the window
we thought might be unlocked.
Part cat burglar, part narcissistic voyeur,
I paused after unfolding myself
into the room, observing
what we were when we weren’t there.
The television, mid-conversation,
prattling on without us; my beer still cold,
unmoved. You’ll remember
how the tails behind you wagged,
how happy we were to have back
what we had. I remember
I felt so heroic giving that to you
by just opening the door, which
I can tell you now, I’m certain I shut.

from Rattle #43, Spring 2014
Tribute to Love Poems

__________

James Davis May: “I’ve always liked Czeslaw Milosz’s claim that ‘the purpose of poetry is to remind us/ how difficult it is to remain just one person.’ I’ll modify that quote, though, slightly: The purpose of poetry is, sometimes, to remind us how difficult it is to be a person. That is, by testifying what it’s like to be a person, poetry defends (both justifies and protects) that flimsy—some say mythical—thing the self.”

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April 23, 2022

Anis Mojgani

SOMEWHERE IN MY BODY ARE TWO FLOWERS FOR THE SAME PERSON

I do not always have the right thing to say

my foot sometimes moves without me

a wing of my library is filled

with only the knocking of one cuckoo clock

and the voices of yellow flowers

a path of empty vases follows us

somewhere in my body

small memories

fold newspapers by the thousands

turning them into small squares

from Rattle #39, Spring 2013
Tribute to Southern Poets

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Anis Mojgani (Louisiana & Texas): “I took a poetry class at the end of high school with Ms. Jean Gill, which first opened my eyes to the possibility of writing poems. The first poem I wrote for her was about summer in New Orleans. The second was about my grandfather’s aftershave. After seeing the poet Jeffrey McDaniel perform in my freshman year of college and buying Jeff ’s book Alibi School, my brain and heart opened further to what poetry could do both on the page and when being spoken.” (web)

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November 12, 2014

Dominika Wrozynski

DESERT LOVE POEM

This is our second Christmas, the make-it-or-break-it
Christmas where we decide. I didn’t know whether
I would still love you tomorrow. So today you’ve left
on a hunt for a natural tree because we are both tired
of talking and my mother is coming to spend her first
Christmas in New Mexico, eat green chile rice at your
parents’, get to know their Chihuahuas as the dogs
hump her leg. I wanted her to have a tree, not from
the Walmart parking lot, but a pine from the mesa,
cut by you with a blunt axe—the only one we have.
You will refuse to wear gloves, knick your thumb, swear
into the year’s first snow. But you will bring it back,
remember when you hunted trees with your father last
year, how his beard caught the sudden storm, and how
he dragged the prize through his asthma home to your
mother. She cried that night, cursed him for almost
killing you both. You will then understand how she
leaned into your father after she was tired of talking,
after there was nothing more to say.

from Rattle #43, Spring 2014
Tribute to Love Poems

[download audio]

__________

Dominika Wrozynski: “I often look at my own work as a poetry editor looks at submissions (since I’ve been a poetry editor for various journals for almost ten years). As an editor, I always want a poem that makes me want to go into the editorial meeting and put up a fight to see the poem in print. Give me an arsenal of surprising images, unusual word choice, and a critical awareness of what it means to be human. If I’m going to take the effort to fight for a poem, I want it to win. As a poet, I hope to write poems for which I’d put up a fight.”

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November 11, 2014

Richard Widerkehr

IN THE PRESENCE OF ABSENCE

When I woke from anesthesia,
I was quoting Shakespeare, saying, “I feel strange,

but, as Shakespeare says, I must greet it as a stranger.”
The nurse in the recovery room

tried to orient me, but I replied, “So I have heard,
and do in part believe.” I said something

about Love Pantry, next to a Thai restaurant,
where Linda and I had joked about going.

There she was beside me. I kept saying,
“So glad to see you,” as if I’d come back

from the other world, casting off dread
like an anchor. I know nothing

about heaving an anchor. I know a few things
about meteors and grief. And if I’d chosen

to go on in my pedantic, loopy way,
I could’ve said, quoting Shakespeare,

Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate.
But I was happy as I sucked at the ice chips

Linda fed me with a blue plastic spoon.
They were the best things I ever tasted. At midnight,

the nurse let me have a cup of raspberry jello.
It was the best thing I ever tasted. 

If only these opiates could last, each breath not empty,
each moment bright and flickering. 

When the lab tests came back,
the surgeon said, “We got the cancer.

It hasn’t spread to your lymph nodes.”
Again, I felt gratitude and thirst,

which I tried to remember as the pain began,
an anchor dragging, my works and days

connected to a catheter. As I turned to my routines,
walks and one book, I tried to get it back,

that strange gift from the other side. I wanted
to join it to an orange on a white plate,

bitter at first, sweet underneath, a crow
on a picnic table, an empty bowl

that a friend filled with water for her regal white dog.
I tried to connect the crow’s 

arrogant croaking to the pain in my back.
But, no, you don’t need to know how OxyContin

knocked the pain down from a seven to a two,
don’t need to hear how they stitched me together.

On the beach at Moclips, where we went
before the surgery, Linda flew a blue kite,

a smile of pure delight on her face,
the sun half-hidden in gray-white clouds.

She said, “Maybe, this isn’t the last goodbye—
maybe you’ll get lucky again.”

And her face in the recovery room,
her smile—you can take a blackboard

and set God’s stars on it. You can take
an orange and chew the pulp,

savor the juice that tastes like nothing else,
as the word “orange” rhymes with nothing else.

I can’t tell you what Linda means to me.
Perhaps, our life isn’t a string of moments,

each one no more or less important
than another, as the Buddhist poet implied. 

But I was talking about gratitude and thirst.
I get to park my ancient green Subaru

under the linden trees, near the privet hedges,
with their sweet white flowers.

from Rattle #43, Spring 2014
Tribute to Love Poems

__________

Richard Widerkehr: “You ask why I love poems. I think of the woman in Fiddler on a Roof who said, ‘I’ve cooked his food, shared his bed, given him children. I must love him.’ In poems, I wrestle with water, sticks, dreams, stones, syllables, and stories. I wrote ‘In the Presence of Absence’ in a workshop led by Ellie Mathews at Centrum in Port Townsend, Washington, in the summer of 2007.”

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November 10, 2014

Holly Welker

DIP

Once I had a lover who annoyed me by
not liking me as much as I liked him, though
I admit I didn’t like him as much as I
liked certain other guys. He was tall and
aloof and laughed too hard at his own jokes,
which were never that funny anyway. He
was also the best dipper I’ve ever known,
sure of the strength of his own body and
appropriately daring with mine. You know
how at the end of a dance sometimes the guy
will spin the woman into his arms, then drop
her backwards as a final flourish, leaving her
suspended in mid-air till the music stops?
I love dancing but I also love that bedizened
sashay of closure at least as much as every
graceful movement that precedes it; I love
giving my hands to my partner of the moment,
kicking up one leg and surrendering to gravity,
falling quickly toward the earth because I’ve entrusted
my weight to someone I don’t quite trust,
someone who could drop me on my head
but never does. Once at an after-hours party at
the Dipping Guy’s house this other guy brought
a baseball glove he’d had since he was seven
and loved more than anything in the world.
Of course he lost it. Dipping Guy felt
responsible and made us all look for the glove,
offering an unspecified but highly desirable
reward, so someone traipsed to the guy’s car
and someone else checked behind the sofa.
No one found the glove. We all felt bad,
or would have, if we’d known or liked this guy
dumb enough to haul his beloved glove
along for a night of heavy drinking. When the beer
ran out and the night was nearly gone too,
Dipping Guy sent his guests home but wanting
to be a gentleman he walked onto the lawn to
bid us farewell and what should I find revealed
by the humid half light of a hungover
midsummer’s dawn but the poor guy’s
glove lying where any fool could see or trip
over it, right on the path to the house. “Look
what I found,” I said, and held up the glove
like it could actually catch something. I
gave it to the guy, who said, gratefully, wisely,
that he’d leave it home next time. “Can I have
a dip as my reward?” I asked Dipping Guy.
He stared at me a moment, then charged
toward me with fierce resolve. “I’ll dip you
to the seventh circle of hell,” he said, which
sounded threatening, not fun, but then it
was happening: my hands were grasped and
my left knee bent while my right knee straightened
and kicked up, up and my hips dropped to just
above the earth while my hair and my skirt trailed on
the sidewalk and I watched the sky above me blanch
with the inevitable light of morning. And then
he pulled gently on my hands and up I sprang,
my face flushed with blood and gravity,
the rest of me singing and ready to go home.

from Rattle #43, Spring 2014
Tribute to Love Poems

__________

Holly Welker: “I grew up in southern Arizona, the descendant of dour Mormon pioneers I always praised for having the sense to get the hell out of Utah soon after they arrived there, which made things a little awkward when I ended up living in Salt Lake City. I began writing as an eleven-year-old because I was promised an audience of angels if I shared my deepest thoughts in a journal. Eventually I gave up writing for angels; it’s plain old human beings I want to connect with now.”

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