The stresses, discontents, all melting or traded away for better. So, seven poems and two joyous art-poems I’ve found here and there this summer…
Matthew Sweeney, “Gold.”
After the murder, I called a meeting
to see if we were happy. I declared
I was not — I said I liked the man
we shot. You all disagreed with this.
Joanie Mackowski, “Consciousness.”
How it is fickle, leaving one alone to wander
the halls of the skull with the fluorescents
softly flickering. It rests on the head
like a bird nest, woven of twigs and tinsel
and awkward as soon as one stops to look.
Elaine Equi, “Still Life #1.”
Look deep into the blueberry eyes of breakfast.
Joshua Mehigan, “The Fair.”
The fair slid into town just as a clown
slides into pants. The fit was loose but right.
Mitch Roberson, “Every Day We Are Dancers.”
It begins with the lewd macarena
each of us performs in the shower,
then the modified twist we are hip to
with that ever-absorbent partner, the towel
Tony Fitzpatrick, “The Atomic Oriole.”
Gary J. Whitehead, “Making Love in the Kitchen.”
We do it with knives in hand,
blue tongues licking the bottoms of pots,
steam fogging the windows from hearts
of artichokes being strained.
Rita Dove, “Flirtation.”
Outside the sun
has rolled up her rugs
and night strewn salt
across the sky. My heart
is humming a tune
I haven’t heard in years!
Mary Mapes Dodge, “The Moon Came Late.”