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The coffin is lifted out of the hearse
by the pallbearers, and as it is carried
up the steps of the church, Randy
gently puts his left hand on Anthony’s
left hip, as they carry the wooden box
containing Anthony’s mother into the
church for her funeral.
After communion, the priest cleans up
while an auburn-haired mezzo soprano
sings something.
Something that sounds just like the other
things she’s just sung.
Everybody’s on a schedule.
Anthony’s eulogy
paints a vivid and sometimes
hilarious picture of the
woman who raised him,
a woman whose loss he will continue
to suffer for many days to come.
Randy holds his hand.
Holds him up.
When the coffin is lowered into
the ground, the finality of interment
is lost on none of us.
I feel as though my heart is being
squeezed by a strong and meaty hand.
The earth Anthony’s mother is gently
placed into has been cleanly carved
to accommodate her.
Piles of clouds,
like mounds of whipped cream,
pass overhead, then part as if
to make way for Irene, who I
picture smiling at us and
wondering Why all the fuss?
—Lori White
Dried Grape
Rough, Dry, and soft
An essence of its former shape
The Ridges casting shadows on the valleys
The Texture contrasting the sweet flavor
Resembles a small planet
An atmosphere of scent
—Ryan Helm (15 years)
PS: I Left You
a handful of jewel—
led yellow rice in a corner
inside the refrigerator
I had tossed the sun in spoonfuls
adding pomegranate seeds
the bowl shivers
in the chill, its eggshell
thin china will hold this little
light for you behind
the closed door
when you look back
and I am gone
—Saima Afreen
Time’s Fool
“How does Time work,”
I ask my students,
“In the sonnets?”
A terrible question
Literally, of course:
Time culls, erases, reaps,
razes, destroys
Terrors all
But also just bad
the kind that makes them
check the clocks
on their phones
As they should
Better to ask why
Her eyes are his eyes
My hair her hair
Across decades
Or later in the car
when we sing Van Morrison
How blanket dark New York
is Iowa, 1996
Ireland, 1966
It is not work
—Cyrus Mulready
Dream Speak
Reasonably,
I used to believe
that I was a limited
being of needs,
which would not be met
unless I could get
to a flag hoisted sky high
over my head,
which I shivered to reach,
higher than the noon son
overshading everyone;
so I shaved my artsy pounds
and became a knowledge hound,
like Tommy Ed,
or Albert Ein,
I promised to ever
find new things
to sate my curiosities
about the trees
and the girls
and all the mountain hoods
endlessly casting
shadows of mystery,
outlining valleys vast,
pounding the mountain pass,
molded from hands of clay,
counting on every day
to cast a picture frame,
bathing the world in flame
with bitter attitude,
considering the tune
of all the pinecones
crooning and spooning and spinning and spitting and
dancing and lifting and flying and sighing and
dreaming and whining and waking and taking and
walking and talking and making and staking and
milking and stalking and sticking and lacking and
laking and stacking and stopping and dropping and
rolling and lolling and laughing and lauding and
flipping and scolding and screaming and crying and
panting and lying and parting and dying and
sniffling and snaffling and absolutely baffling and
peopling and puzzling and grizzling and guzzling and
fizzling and fastening and slithering and slathering and
blithering and babbling and scribbling and scrabbling and
dribbling and dabbling and troubling and doubling and tripling and sapling and
stippling and dappling and
crippling and crappling and accidentally appling and
fetching and wretching and fletching and stretching and
pitching and clutching and stripping and strapping and
stitching and stuffing and ripping and wrapping and
rimming and rapping and
clipping and crapping and
chipping and clapping and
happening and sharpening and darkening and
Shenandoahing and Shawangunkening.
—John Ackerman
the little sundrops
clinging to a pine needle
practice resistance
—Jennifer Howse
Green Light Red Light
New Life. Such joy.
Rest right. Share news.
Stay fit. Buy crib.
Read books. Check-up.
Search names. Choose one.
Pure love. It grows.
Learn sex. A boy.
Have sex. Enjoy.
Make list. Get gifts.
Prep room. New sheets.
Paint walls. Hang frames.
Strong kick. Huge sigh.
Feel tight. Not right.
Too soon. Keep calm.
Feet up. Head back.
Doctor, hand in.
Cervix. Too thin.
Butt shot. Grow lungs.
All night. Awake.
Pulse check. Crown down.
White room. Three days
Chest hot. Feet cold.
Back home. No work.
In bed. All day.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Mouth dry. Mind gone.
Six months. Time now.
Spread legs. Let’s go.
Son born. Three pounds.
Can’t breathe. Can’t suck.
Thin skin. Blue lips.
Damp hair. Can’t hold.
Stick feet. Run lines.
Lights blink. Fear builds.
Nurse says, know this.
Sign this. Dread this.
—Jeanne-Marie Fleming
Sonnet on Growing Old
The hollow sphere that rests upon his neck,
that should be filled with images of joy,
now whistles as the winds pick up, and flecks
of dust emerge that dance, that mock the boy
whose memories crave only hope and love,
who wants for nothing more than drink to slake
a summer’s thirst, and shade from sun above,
and friends to share the myriad dreams he makes.
But he is not a fledgling child; those days
are buried deep within his past. Full grown,
he stumbles, feels the heavens start to sway,
and falls, the earth less kindly than he’d known,
when there was more to life ahead than years
behind, and time had yet to commerce tears.
—William J. Joel
Side Effects of Surviving Breast Cancer
Cancer was a skirmish
not a battle,
left me radiated, scarred,
still vibrating with life.
I emerged with both breasts,
and no chemo.
Now colors are more brilliant,
birdsong sweeter.
Side effects of surviving:
It was a holy passage.
On the other side, I know
the scalpel removed malignant fears
along with the lump.
Six weeks of radiation
burnt up malicious cells,
incinerated all tolerance for bullshit.
I am grateful
for these side effects.
Seven years out,
I am alive and whole,
spirit honed by knife and fire.
—Judith Prest
Picket Fences
My sister said she hates my town,
says it’s a nightmare,
an idyll turned upside down.
A police chief stands with a frown.
There is no part left in him to care.
My sister said she hates my town.
The dirt is piled on the casket like a crown
covering the embarrassment there.
An idyll turned upside down.
This shit ain’t new in my hometown.
We have plenty of addicts to spare.
My sister said she hates my town.
From the baptismal to the wedding gown,
we live blissfully unaware
of our idyll turned upside down.
Then it comes home and now we drown.
It is all too much to bear.
My sister said she hates my town,
An idyll turned upside down.
—Stephanie Gleeson
Hiccups in Aramaic
We bellyache vaguely
of the holiday blues.
I’ll lay mine out
for you:
There was a brief time
in my life
when I was
almost the hero.
Estranged parents
a wayward replacement
and my brother
they didn’t make
met under the same roof
to sit at a long table
with name cards
placed strategically
snowmen and elves
drawn on company time.
Twice a year
this healing was held
after decades of separation
brought together
by what we all thought
would last.
We were wrong
but we have those
memories, silent
and loud
like gunshots
unaware of whether
to be grateful or lost
in the wake
of what almost was.
I would have worn
a better shirt
had I known.
—Mike Vahsen
Desert Winds—
The Lizard finds comfort
Under a Rock.
—Mayueroa
After the Holidays
O touch the little bongo,
Sniff the spreading DillyDally.
Taste and see the fullness of
The days-old creamy nog.
Hear the bells on balls on
Yuletide trees and tchotchkes.
Wring in the wrinkles of yet
Another crooked year.
Imagine all the gifted ping pongs that
Might love you like a winter boot afire.
Sense dry skin exploding if and when
You ever stop counting flakes.
—Patrick Hammer, Jr.
This article appears in February 2025.
