March 1, 2024

Ardon Shorr

TIME TRAVEL FOR BEGINNERS

Every crumb of starlight 
sails across the universe, 
 
the journey of a million years 
to end inside our eyes.
 
Except I was looking at you,
canvas coverall cinched at the waist,
 
as you undressed me with photons,
wrapped me in stories, 
 
painted with x-rays,
until everything glowed 
 
with backstory—the names of trees, 
the name of an extinguished star,
 
still visible, ghost in the sky, 
climbing a staircase of optic nerve 
 
into an afterlife of sight.
Hand on my hand you pointed to the past:
 
the sun, an 8-minute time machine,
the moon, one second old,
 
and the incredible now,
unfolding like a cone,
 
megaphone of memory stretched to the sky
and balanced on the tip was us,
 
a luminous shout
of life at the speed of light.
 
In a blink, this moment reaches the moon.
When we pack up the hammock, it floats
 
in the acid clouds of Venus.
Which means that somewhere, there is a spot,
 
past the gaps in Saturn’s rings,
beyond the storms of Jupiter,
 
outside the curved embrace of the Milky Way,
at least one place in the universe,
 
where you could turn around and see us,
back when we were still in love.
 

from Rattle #82, Winter 2023
Rattle Poetry Prize Winner

__________

Ardon Shorr: “I was trained as a scientist. There’s this moment in an experiment where you can ask a question of the universe and actually get an answer. It’s like something is speaking to you, and for a moment, you’re the only one who knows it. Then you get to share it. Poetry is how I return to that moment.” (web)

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February 28, 2024

Tim Seibles

ANTS

Sometimes you’ll see one
far from any yard, maybe 
on a bookshelf, Barnes 
& Noble—third floor 
of the mall—or somehow 
whipping across town 
with you in your car. 
 
There it is: stepping along 
the dusty dashboard
antennae askew, six tiny feet
marking a nearly straight line
pausing once       twice as if trying
to remember a missed turn
 
but without panic, though 
it’s probably hungry 
and a little pissed
and desperate for the lean 
chemical trail of its colony kin
 
who by now are a million
ant miles away, just beginning 
to notice that you-know-who 
hasn’t been seen for a while.  
Maybe their feelers twitch 
with grief or a little envy. 
 
Saw one today 
on the basketball court
and wished I could believe
what that ant believed
with those fancy sneaks
flashing all around.
 
Years ago, in Philadelphia—
Sharpnack Street: row houses
block after block, paint peeling
on the porches, one faded address
after another—I was looking
for Donna’s house.
 
She had the biggest afro 
in the city and a smile 
like a lead singer 
taking the mike: Donna Lee, 
the girl I called a “tackhead” 
back in 7th grade because 
no one had told me
what puberty could do.  
 
I must’ve had the street wrong
and soon found myself deep
in the turf held by The Clang,
tough guys mostly my age 
and always ready to move 
on a stranger, and I knew
 
those dudes didn’t know me. 
But I just kept walking 
while the dark flickered 
with the streetlights
starting to buzz and the city
like a black leather jacket.
 
I was sixteen, away 
from home with nobody 
bossing me around, lost
in a night that might have
gone on forever.
 
I felt that way again today 
wandering a neighborhood 
that should’ve been familiar 
but nothing is anymore:
 
not these pocked streets
and untrimmed hedges 
not my own busy head
tuning up every fear—
 
not even my country
though I was born here
almost 70 years ago, but what 
should I do? What can anybody 
 
actually do       but keep on walking.
 

from Rattle #82, Winter 2023
Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist

__________

Tim Seibles: “The way ant colonies are organized, the fact that they predate humanity by millions of years, and the everywhere-ness of these tiny beings has always fascinated me. This poem began when I noticed an ant on the fifth floor of my apartment complex; I still can’t figure out how it got there—maybe as a passenger on someone’s pants leg. I write poetry because life is both wondrous and poignant, and I feel compelled to celebrate what amazes me and to decry what wounds the world.” (web)

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February 26, 2024

Jacob K. Robinson

THE POOL

Oh, right. About the boy from the sky
He fell, unexpectedly, feet first into the pool
Which is a silly thing to think
A boy with enough composure, while falling from a great height, to direct his feet earthward
I suppose it could mean he intended to land
To bend his knees on arrival
To cushion the impact
But could it also mean he was trying to create as little splash as possible?
To pencil his body through the earth, like water
To show his skill at making no waves, causing no tumult, no hubbub, no trauma
Maybe he was competing in a diving contest
Between four other boys and himself
And he simply wanted to win.
 
The other boys had competed finely
There were flips and jackknifes and a cannonball just to stir the pot
They had no judge but themselves, each other
A scale of zero to ten, though no one would give a zero
That would simply be too cruel
And a ten was out of the question
A score only given to the impossible, the unattainable
A target to aim for, knowing they could never hit it.
 
With each dive they had raised the stakes
They had upped the ante, so to speak
This didn’t imply that the following dive need be better
Just that it had to be more, different, else
The thinking was that one must never step back, regress, devalue the competition
One must always add add add
Lift the competition to new heights
And in so doing, lift each other
It was really about encouragement, was it not?
It was really about making each other better, stronger, more capable
It was really about tough love and hard won battle scars
It was really about elevation.
 
From way up in the sky, the pool looked like a target, an eye
It had lost its kidney bean shape
And morphed into a simple dot
A little crystalline blue pupil with an off-white iris made of concrete and pebbles
Surrounding that, a green green green sclera
That was the wide open land of rural Texas
That was the cow pastures and hay fields
Hay fields in the off season, wild grass spurting up from the untilled dirt
There was a house next to the eye, a long ranch home
One could imagine it as a nose but that was upsetting
Then one might expect there to be another eye, bookending the bridge of the nose-house
But there wasn’t.
There isn’t.
There couldn’t be.
And it would be a sad thing to think about a missing eye, a semi-lost vision
So the nose-house does not exist, it disappears from view at this height
Not by actuality but by actualization
This was not an eye of a pair of eyes
This was a kind of cyclops, a singular point from which the Up Above is viewed
The Up Above in which a boy could be seen
Falling, feet first, toward the target-eye.
 
The other boys continued their competition
The highest score to be achieved thus far, an 8
Which is to say, they were nearing the end.
The dive that had achieved the 8 was a half back flip twist maneuver
Hard to render completely, but that is the description the attempting boy used
A sort of half back flip twist, then, head first, arms in front, straight down like a needle
And he did it
He pierced the water with hardly a ripple, comparatively anyhow
In fact, the only reason he did not merit a 9 was that he had not made the full twist
His entry was achieved at—roughly—a 350-degree position from how he began
Which was with his back to the other boys
So, given the parameters of the dive he described, he should have entered the water facing away again
And he nearly did
But not quite
Thus, the 8.
 
From below, the feet of the boy from the sky looked like an equal sign
Spread just slightly apart, the smallest of gaps between them
He had considered keeping them pressed tight to one another
Ankle to ankle, as it were
But that had proved to be uncomfortable to hold
And he would be holding it for some time
So instead he opted for the more sustainable: slightly apart.
There was something to this strange stance he had positioned himself in
This kind of gentle at-ease
Say one was flying in an airplane and looked out the window and saw the boy
He would look like he was standing on air
What a sight.
 
The diving boys did not know about the boy from the sky until he was there
They knew him, of course
He was a friend of theirs
Or an acquaintance maybe
But they didn’t know that word then
So they used friend
They didn’t know he was taking part in their little competition
They didn’t know how badly he wanted to win
They didn’t know how long he had been planning this dive
All they knew was that he was suddenly there
Crashing
Feet first
Into their pool.
 
The water, that blue pupil, spilled out onto the iris of off-white concrete and pebble
All of it
The pupil space that remained became the color of bleached bone, empty
Its blue trickled away away away
Over the concrete and pebble
toward the green green green sclera
And then it seeped down into it
And was gone
The boy from the sky was the new vision
The diving boys were seeing.
 
Cracks began
To form
In the pupil
As if the boy from the sky
Kept wanting
To go down
 
It was aging
Everything was aging
At a pace
Unexpected
Drying out
Unused
 
The green green green
Is now brown brown brown
And the nose-house that never was
Is being sold
The memories contained in the pupil waters
Now somewhere else
Scattered on impact
 
The pool
Will be demolished
Filled in
And maybe become a garden
Or a garage
 
The four diving boys
Will eventually forget the boy from the sky
Or no
Not forget
Simply not remember
Not every day anyway
But occasionally they will recall
The dive that was an 8
They will laugh about how close it was to a 9
And
Then
Oh right.
 

from Rattle #82, Winter 2023
Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist

__________

Jacob K. Robinson: “At the end of the day, I think I’d like to be summed up like so: I am Texan by birth, a Georgian by blood, and a New Yorker by choice. I like a good pair of Levi’s, mowing the lawn, and playoff baseball. I am doing my best.” (web)

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February 23, 2024

Amy Miller

UMBRELLA

Someone said Watch
the baby, so I watched her
sleep, small mouth with 
a bubble at the edge. Hands
 
like little double OKs. All
of human history pulsing
in the shallow vein
of her temple. A thin beige
 
umbrella over her head, 
raindrops exploding 
themselves against it, 
trying to touch her.
 

from Rattle #82, Winter 2023
Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist

__________

Amy Miller: “I am not a baby person. Grew up the youngest kid in my extended family, never liked babysitting, never had kids of my own. When somebody passes me a baby I freeze, holding this squirmy little creature. And yet … I was a school photographer’s assistant in my 20s, and found that I loved working with kids, especially the little ones who needed help blowing their noses and combing their eyebrows (that’s a thing in photography). It was actually one of the most thought-provoking jobs I ever had, although I constantly had the flu. Now when somebody hands me a baby, it’s still awkward but also sort of epic. Time and galaxies collide.” (web)

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February 21, 2024

Meredith Mason

USE YOUR WORDS

My son looks up from drawing plants with teeth,
says, “You’re long-gone when we’re at Dad’s,” then tries
to find a better green. I think I’ll weep,
or maybe raise my hand and give him five.
 
He’s used his words. I want to hand him back 
some other words, remind him that he’s fine,
but nights when he’s not here I jolt awake;
the other side of his long-gone is mine.
 
I burrow underneath my blanket pile,
remind myself he’s safe, we’re fine, and … and …
the research shows, blah, blah, that kids can thrive …
Outside the maples wave their empty hands.
 
My son sleeps on the river’s other side.
I cannot swim across. It’s cold, and wide.
 

from Rattle #82, Winter 2023
Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist

__________

Meredith Mason: “I love the way that sound and meaning are in conversation with each other in the making of a poem, how they inform and guide each other. The process of weaving something whole and surprising from the varied sounds and symbols that make it feels like a chance to become more whole myself, feels like a kind of relief I crave. It’s a little like if you had a terrible itch in your duodenum, or right under your left kneecap, and poetry was the only thing that could relieve it, you would have to write poems, and read poems.”

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February 19, 2024

Diana Goetsch

MOTEL SURRENDER

Lovers come best together when they come
undone, empty-handed, rendered dumb,
come down to their last card, a turning
way past desperation and cleaner burning.
They show up in the doorways of motels,
sights for sore eyes in sunken orbitals,
solemn as animals, far from all thought
of anything that can be learned or taught.
Lovers show up best after they’ve used
up their excuses, returning bruised
in a cold season, in a darkening room,
in threadbare clothes absent of perfume,
and even these will soon go up in flames
along with their bones, their dreams, their names.
 

from Rattle #82, Winter 2023
Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist

__________

Diana Goetsch: “I began writing poetry at four or five a.m. on the NYC subway after nights spent shooting pool. I was wasting my life. Then phrases, lines came to me. They weren’t lines of Whitman or Yeats or Eliot, so I figured they must be mine. They cycled through my head as I walked my Brooklyn neighborhood among a million sleeping people, feeling like I was treading the afterlife. Once home, I jotted the lines in a notebook, added some more, and started playing with them. That was 30 years ago.” (web)

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February 16, 2024

Isabella DeSendi

ELEGY FOR TÍO LAZARO

Because he was already dying, he figured
there was no harm in huffing through 2 or 3 cigarettes
 
in the early morning before my mother would wake—
the animal of his thin, brown body lassoed
 
to an oxygen tank. Because he didn’t have papers
we had to drive two hours to retrieve the tank
 
from a discount store in Ocala
where my mom had to pay
 
out of pocket for air that would be filtered
from a rocket-ship shaped canister
 
into a tiny tube three times the size of a vein
directly into the soggy, plastic bags of my tio’s
 
stalling lungs just so he could drink cafecitos
& play crossword puzzles or the lottery
 
while we sat around in the kitchen
wondering how long we could keep him alive.
 
My mom was elbow deep in dishwater
when the letter came
 
denying our appeal for his citizenship.
No, he could not get Medicare.
 
Yes, he would have to go back after living
50 years in this country. This country,
 
where, at 20, he learned to fix engines
in chop shops and likened himself
 
to a surgeon—saying any man with purpose could fix
any broken thing if he simply tried hard enough.
 
Entiendes sobrina? It’s why God gave us hands.
Sometimes, I like to imagine him in the garage
 
surrounded by brutal heat and moonlight,
the broken chair under him barely keeping
 
itself together while he held metal chunks
in his hands like a heart, wondering where
 
it all went wrong, believing enough screws
could put it all back. Of course, this was after he fell
 
in love with a woman in Kentucky,
dreamt of being a local politician
 
and with that same American sense of disillusion,
grandeur—discovered heroin: the god he’d worship
 
until he felt nothingness, & after nothingness
the dull edge of sobriety, the death of his American wife
 
which meant the death of food stamps, which meant the death
of a life that allowed him to lay on the roof of his car
 
while he smoked Marlboros and recited constellations:
Andromeda, Aquilus, Ursa major, Ursa minor
 
which made him feel just as smart as the white men
he swept for. Aren’t our lives just simple constellations
 
made up of many deaths? Yes, someone in an office
in a building in this country decided no, he could not
 
get medical care. No, he could not stay.
Two nights later, Lazaro woke from a dream
 
screaming aliens were coming to get him.
That their ship was hovering over the house.
 
The light so bright he couldn’t see my mom’s hands
as she helped him back to bed. The next night he died.
 
Milky Way: one answer on yesterday’s crossword puzzle.
You can’t tell me the dying don’t know
 
when their time is coming.
The tip of the letter, still sticking out
 
of my mom’s black purse like a cigarette
already flickering gone.
 

from Rattle #82, Winter 2023
Rattle Poetry Prize Finalist

__________

Isabella DeSendi: “I wrote this poem after telling two of my poet friends the story of my tio’s death, including his vision of being abducted by aliens just days after we’d received the news about his deportation. My mom was still trying to figure out how to fight the government’s decision, how to break the news. My friends and I were huddled in a small circle during the intermission of a reading when I decided to share the story with them. One friend, Cat, turned to me and said, ‘Bella, this is a poem.’ She was right. This piece is an elegy for my tio, but it’s also a lamentation for immigrants in this country—and ultimately a song of praise for my mother, whose strength, generosity, and capacity for enduring I am constantly in awe of.” (web)

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