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Ode to Those Who Block Tunnels and Bridges – Sam Sax

teach us there can be movement 
in stillness. in every broken syllable 
of traffic a syllabus that says
while you are suffering we are all
going to be unwell—let us 
instead distill business as usual 
down to the speed of a tree eating 
light. as usual, business is built 
from freight trains and warships
even when ‘it’s just coffee.’
these bridges should only connect 
the living, so when the living turn 
again toward death worship
it’s time to still the delivery of plastics 
and red meats to the galas of venture 
capital. to reject our gods if they are 
not the gods who teach us all that comes 
from dirt returns to it holy—
the holiest word i know is no. 
no more money for the endless
throat of money. no more 
syllogisms that permission
endless suffering. no more.
and on the eighth day of a holiday
meant to represent a people 
fighting occupation my teachers 
who stretch a drop of oil into a week 
of light take each other’s arms
across eight bridges of this settler colony 
singing prayers older than any country 
as the chevron burns in the distance.
o stilted vernacular of life—
o pedagogs of the godly pausing—
what mycelia spreads its speaking
limbs beneath the floors of our cities. 
the only holy land i know
is where life is. in the story 
i was taught alongside my first 
language it takes god six days 
to make the terrible world 
and on seventh day he rested
and on the eighth we blocked traffic.

Meeting the Dead Poet

I meet the dead poet for our rendezvous, as planned.
He looks good, even if dead,
and wants very much to know
how things are going.


I began by describing his memorial service,
Trying to tell him who was there
Though I knew far less than half of them,
To describe the poems that were read,
alhough I didn’t understand any of them,
Except for one of his poems,
Read by the woman who led the labyrinth walk,
The woman with the seven-year-old boy
Permanently attached to her side
The boy I played chess with
While others ate and schmoozed.
I’m not very good at chess.
The boy was worse.
I made sure all games ended in a draw.


The best poem was the poet’s own poem,
Read by the woman from the spiritual center
About a time when the poet and his very Jewish father
Went to the local Catholic Church,
Something shocking all in itself,
To help the priest untangle and string the Christmas lights.
I don’t recall the specifics of the poem
But it was very dead poet-like
And involved allusions to light
And color
And Prometheus,
who stole fire from the gods
and gave it to humanity.
It was a lovely poem.
I even called it brilliant
Which, of course, the poet liked.


Afterwards, we found ourselves sitting at a table
In a Serbian café drinking kava,
Charming the young waitresses,
And drawing the attention of other patrons
Who were amazed that foreigners were among them
And wouldn’t believe the poet when he told them
He was dead
Although they promptly brought him
A tray of peeled garlic cloves
And conveyed numerous facts
About the garlic’s healing properties
And how easy they were to propagate,
Which inspired the dead poet
To put one of the cloves in his pocket
For planting when he got home.


We were next in a hotel lobby
Where a poetess was giving a reading
That was impossible to hear
Over the din of the crowd.
So the poet moved as close to her as he could
While I went off to find a new pen
With which to write the amazing poem
I knew was within me
About my encounter with a dead poet,
who I knew well.


You cannot imagine
How hard it is to find a good pen
With just the right sharpness
To create a good poem
No matter how many stores you visit.

Harriet Wilson

In 1825, Harriet E. Wilson was born in Milford, New Hampshire, to a white mother and a Black father. After her mother’s death, she was given away as an indentured servant, spending her childhood in labor and hardship instead of school or play.

As an adult, abandoned by her husband and left to care for her sick child, Harriet worked as a seamstress, cleaner, and domestic servant. Poverty followed her, but she refused to be silenced.

In 1859, she accomplished something extraordinary: she published Our Nig; or, Sketches from the Life of a Free Black. It was the first novel ever published by an African American woman in the United States. With unflinching honesty, Harriet exposed that racism and exploitation existed not only in the South but also in the so-called “free” North.

The book sold poorly, and Harriet’s hope that it might provide for her son was never fulfilled. After his death, she moved to Boston, where she became a spiritualist and reformer, offering help to others even as her own name faded into obscurity.

When Harriet Wilson died in 1900, she was buried without recognition. But in 1982, scholar Henry Louis Gates Jr. rediscovered her book, restoring her place as a pioneer of American literature.

Her voice, once forgotten, now rings out again. Harriet Wilson’s story is one of resilience, courage, and proof that even if the world forgets, words can rise again to be remembered.”

To Diego with Love – Frida Kalko

I’m not asking you to give me a kiss,
not to apologize to me when I think you’ve made a mistake,
I won’t even ask you to hug me when I need it most,
I’m not asking you to tell me how beautiful I am even if it’s a lie,
or to write me anything nice.
I’m not even going to ask you to call me
to tell me how your day was,
or to tell me you miss me.
I’m not going to ask you to thank me for everything I do for you,
or to worry about me when I’m down,
and of course, I’m not going to ask you to support me in my decisions,
or even to listen when I have a thousand stories to tell you.
I’m not going to ask you to do anything, not even to be by my side forever.
Because if I have to ask you, then I don’t want it anymore.

Flautist – inspired by George and Ira Gerswin

I say flautist
And she says flutist
She says well dressed
And I say nudist
Flautist
Or flutist
Well dressed
Or nudist
She’ll take her clothes off you’ll see


She likes the high notes
And I say play low
She wants more rhythm
And I want more show
High notes
Or low notes
Rhythmic
Or slow
She’ll take her clothes I know


She likes being well draped
And I like her bare
She is socially nervous
And I couldn’t care
Well draped
Or bare skinned
Socially nervous
Or free
She’ll take her clothes off you’ll see


She lives in a small town
Her needs are quite few

She was perfectly happy
Until she met you
Small town
Or needy
Self conscious
Or free
She’ll take her clothes off you’ll see

I say it’s Paris
And she says Pari
She says, it’s no go
And I say we’ll see
Paris or Pari
Le no go
Or oui
She’ll take her clothes off for me


She plays the classics
And then plays the blues
She is red headed
And there go her shoes
Classics
Or blue notes
Red headed
Or gray
She takes her clothes off … hooray.

How to Slay a Dragon – Rebecca Dupas

Two-bloods – Rolando Kattan

I am a descendent of stillness 
and sailors still in motion, 
a brew of saltpeter and blackbird song. 
In just one bloody wound collide 
impatience and calm. 
If I fall silent and words ripen 
it’s the voice of an olive tree in its quiet seed. 
I am the hesitation between hideout and sword, 
the yellow in all the world’s traffic lights. 
In the future I’ll serve you coffee and worship  
you—like an icon—in a picture frame.   

A dos sangres 
Vengo de una ascendencia de quietud 
y marineros todavía en movimiento; 
mezclo el salitre del mar con el canto de un mirlo. 
En una sola herida de sangre colisiona 
la serenidad y el desasosiego. 
Si enmudezco y maduran las palabras 
es la voz de un olivo en su callada semilla. 
Soy la incertidumbre entre el escondite o la espada, 
luz amarillenta en los semáforos del mundo, 
quiero servir tu café en el futuro o adorarte 
—como a un icono—en un portarretrato.

Rolando Kattan

blood


blood, blood, irrational blood flowing through my gates
down my thighs useless and hysterical.

what shall we do with this blood

are we in control or are the fates?
here, i shall paint your face with my blood,
draw blessed archaic symbols
on the walls of your arms and legs
remind us of the hunt, the sustenance we need.

i call upon you to taste me
as we smooth the way
for your
dna  

to come inside me
when the blood is flowing

and it is safe to welcome these eager explorers,
this advance party of terrestrial observers
who shall all die in their service to the queen.  


yes, i shall conspire with you
to send forth another party of your henchmen

your visionaries
inside the road to the sacred city
I shall welcome them passed these holy gates
to meet my ancestors and my future 

to become the entire history of our species
to merge, to reemerge
potential bearing potential being potential
and for some while,

for the first time in a quarter of a century,

all this blood shall cease.

Homesick: A Plea for Our Planet – Andrea Gibson

In the 5th grade I won the science fair 
with a project on climate change 
That featured a paper mache ozone layer 
with a giant hole, through which a paper mache sun 
cancered the skin of a Barbie in a bikini 
on a lawn chair, glaciers melting like ice cubes 
in her lemonade.

It was 1987 in a town 
that could have invented red hats
but the school principal gave me a gold ribbon 
and not a single bit of attitude 
about my radical political stance, 

because neither he nor I knew it was a political stance. 
Science had not been fully framed as leftist propaganda
The president did not have a twitter feed 
starving the world of facts.

I spent that summer as I had every summer 
before, racing through the forest behind my house
down the path my father called the old logging road 
to a meadow thick with raspberry bushes
whose thorns were my very first heroes
because they did nothing with their life but protect
what was sweet.

Sundays I went to church but struggled 
to call it prayer if it didn’t leave grass stains 
on my knees. Couldn’t call it truth if it didn’t 
come with a dare to crawl into the cave
by the creek and stay put until somebody counted 
all the way to 100. 

As a kid I thought 100 was the biggest number there was. 
My mother absolutely blew my mind 
the day she said, One hundred and one. 

One hundred…AND WHAAAAAT!!!!????

Billionaires never grow out of doing that same math 
with years. Can’t conceive of counting past their own lifespans. 
Believe the world ends the day they do. 
Why are the keys to our future in the hands of those 
who have the longest commutes from their heads to their hearts? 
Whose greed is the smog that keeps us from seeing 
our own nature, and the sweetness we are here to protect?

Do you know sometimes when gathering nectar 
bees fall asleep in flowers? Do you know fish 
are so sensitive snowflakes sound like fireworks 
when they land on the water? Do you know sea otters 
hold hands when they sleep so they don’t drift apart? 
Do you know whales will follow their injured friends 
to shore, often taking their own lives 
so to not let a loved one be alone when he dies?

None of this is poetry. It is just the earth 
being who she is, in spite of us putting barcodes on the sea.  
In spite of us acting like Edison invented daylight.

Dawn presses her blushing face to my window, 
asks me if I know the records in my record collection 
look like the insides of trees. Yes, I say, 
there is nothing you have ever grown that isn’t music. 
You were the bamboo in Coltrane’s saxophone reed. 
The mulberries that fed the silkworms 
that made the slippers for the ballet. 
The pine that built the loom that wove the hemp 
for Frida Khalo’s canvas. The roses that dyed her paint 
hoping her brush could bleed for her body.

Who, more than the earth, has bled for us? 
How do we not mold our hearts after the first spruce tree 
who raised her hand and begged to be cut 
into piano keys so the elephants can keep their tusks? 

The earth is the right side of history.  
Is the canyon my friend ran to
when no else he knew would echo 
his chosen name back to him.
Is the wind that wailed through 1956 Alabama 
until the poplar trees carved themselves into Dr King’s pulpit. 
Is the volcano that poured the mercury 
into the thermometers held under the tongue of Italy, 
though she knew our fever was why her canals 
were finally running clear. She took our temperature. 
Told us we were too hot, even after 
we’d spent decades claiming she was not. 
Our hands held to her burning forehead, 
we insisted she was fine while wildfires 
turned redwoods to toothpicks, 
readying the teeth of our apocalypse.

She sent a smoke signal all the way from California.
In New York City ash fell from the sky. 
Do you know the mountains of California 
used to look like they’d been set on fire 
because they were so covered in monarch butterflies? 
Do you know monarch butterflies migrate 3000 miles 
using only the fuel they stored as caterpillars in the cocoon?

We need so much less than we take. 
We owe so much more than we give. 
Squirrels plant thousands of trees every year 
just from forgetting where they left their acorns. 

If we aimed to be just half as good
as one of the earth’s mistakes, 
we could turn so much around.
Our living would be seed, the future would have roots.
We would cast nothing from the garden of itself.
and we would make the thorns proud.

Love is Not All – Edna St. Vincent Millay

Love is not all: it is not meat nor drink
Nor slumber nor a roof against the rain,
Nor yet a floating spar to men that sink
And rise and sink and rise and sink again.
Love can not fill the thickened lung with breath,
Nor clean the blood, nor set the fractured bone;
Yet many a man is making friends with death
Even as I speak, for lack of love alone.
It well may be that in a difficult hour,
pinned down by pain and moaning for release
Or nagged by want past resolution’s power,
I might be driven to sell your love for peace,
Or trade the memory of this night for food.
It well may be. I do not think I would.