MY MOTHER THE COBALT BLUE BUTTERFLY STAR

How to want without wanting? –
desire with all of the being
I’ve got? – but without blindly
pawing for any polluting solution:

no claw marks. Some law
sparks me during a nap: a truth
that cannot be revoked:
there’s resplendent infinity

in every fast-spinning wheel
at the heart of a thought – whose
bright spokes intersect and shoot
out like barrages of starlight:

perfections of flooding response.
Just now, pouring out from
the sconce of a lamp in a dream
flew a dancing cascade of live

creatures the shape and
the brilliance of butterflies: stark
cobalt blue and as true and as full
of existence as you – whoever

you are. My birthday unnerves:
connects to my mother the cobalt
blue butterfly star. She never
lies. She says nobody dies.

Guy Kettelhack (GuyBlakeKett)

PLANT ME DEEP

When my days number by the handful,
my wrinkled garment hung loose
upon this withered bone tree,
plan no satin pining box.

Burn my flesh, this poem,
and gather the ash of these words.
Plant me deep with a young fruited tree,
word-ashes communing with dirt.
(Imagine me and its roots mingling with the worms,
these bones, fodder that feeds,
the woodsy rot of rebirth.)

Let the Old Mother take up her brush
and paint my dreams—
a green-bud awakening.
My flesh, the juicy bite of a peach
as I revel in her seasons’ whirligig jig.

Bake me in a pie
and serve me for Sunday dinner,
where all things are discussed—
what sunlight felt like on new flushed cheeks,
and the wind caught your hair in its witchy hands
to weave its tangled memories.

When you speak of me,
let it be of the nectar’s sweetness
and the fullness of your bellies
when chairs scrape back
replete and satisfied.

Deb Ouellet (DOuellet)

HER BRACELET

I order the Lovely Duck at the Thai place right off 611.
And when it comes, I look at the bird real close,
its mass in layers of fat, and meat
And skin, cooked and charred
cracks in my mouth,
like rubber bands on little girl’s wrists.
And when Stephen talks of Nadia Comaneci,
I break the leg from the thigh,
let my fork fall from my fingers
and, winded, take a long drink of water.

I’m back at the fire stairs,
the cold metal floor makes my toes curl in.
The suffocating heat on my cheek
from pressing the phone to my face
causes me to tighten.
Clenched fists cut fingernails
into my palms, Scars.
      It was the eighth of July, and my father’s father,
      the Tailor,
      died on the fourth.

I’m back in my brother’s old room,
trying to get her to fall asleep,
telling her Everything Will Work Out OK
in-between fits of vomit.
She rants like a dreaming child,
of an old gymnastic class,
and her hot tears fall into my hands
as she reaches for a bracelet that,
having served its purpose,
is no longer there
      I punch a hole in my wall for not piecing it together sooner,
      and my swollen knuckles keep me up at night.

I’m back with the duck, just off 611, (past the target, on the left).
Its thigh and leg, separated, ripped apart by the cartilage.
It sits, in pieces, more naked than it ever could if it were whole.

I could never wear anything on my wrists,
not even a watch.

      I strip it down to its bones.

Gabriel Greenberg (tommyhorn)