May 9, 2024

Marianne Kunkel

I GUESS

Right after my parents’ divorce,
people blurted the single question
they’d been dying to ask for years.
How’d they last a day?

Great sex, I was tempted to respond,
as if the thought of my sour mother
fondling my father’s new rebellion,
a ponytail, wasn’t joke enough.

I guess long ago they made
each other happy. What a sad
thing to have to guess. Once my mother
spoke of a nightmare in which
she walked to our front door;

in pitch dark, she twisted the knob
and a hand from outside twisted back.
I imagine if I shined a flashlight
on that intruder’s face, I’d see
my ever-frustrated father.

Proximity without loving
was their creed, him plucking
a guitar in a room off the kitchen,
her clicking a noisy blender on,

and so I couldn’t believe it when my father said
Enough after all those nights
he laid in their waterbed, flirting
with escape but drifting nowhere.

from Rattle #44, Summer 2014

__________

Marianne Kunkel: “My high school English teacher dropped a Marianne Moore poem on my desk after class one day. At the time I liked reading poetry, but it took realizing I shared a name with a famous poet for me to see myself in it. I started writing.” (web)

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May 8, 2024

Nancy Miller Gomez

HOW TO FORGET

I am lining my memories up against the wall.
They are begging me for reprieve. Here is the night
I found you on the floor, folded
 
like laundry. Here are the bloody towels,
the smell of ammonia and rotting fruit.
Once I was a wife. Now
 
I am a wilderness. I am the grove
of aspens. All that’s left of you
are candle stubs and carpet stains.
 
All your goodbyes have turned into horses.
They are grazing peacefully. Your words
are blades of grass, our last argument
 
a pasture dotted with poppies.
That night I watched you wash
your bruised hands in the sink. Now,
 
I see two fish diving into a stream.
I am re-remembering the last time
we spoke. I have turned it into a holiday,
 
marked it on the calendar
with an asterisk. A day to eat cake.
A day to enter the cellar
 
and retrieve the special vintage
with its sweet notes of smoke and honey.
Lush on the tongue. Easy to swallow.
 
The golden crowned sparrows
have returned from their long summer
singing of loss. Three notes.
 
One for the knife, one for the cut,
one for all I have
forgotten.
 

from Rattle #83, Spring 2024

__________

Nancy Miller Gomez: “According to Michael Anderson, a cognitive neuroscientist at the University of Cambridge, with ‘motivated forgetting’ you can forget with intentionality and sculpt your painful memories into something beautiful. In a New York Times article, Anderson says you can get better at this with practice. ‘How to Forget’ grew out of a thought exercise where the narrator is lining her memories up and making choices about which ones to kill off, and which ones to keep and reshape.” (web)

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May 7, 2024

James Washington Jr.

CREDIT

As son
& mother.
 
Welfare.
 
State surplus
peanut butter, 
cheese, & smiles
for Mr. Sullivan’s
monthly inspection
to certify our poverty.
 
Our couch
couldn’t stand
by itself,
all lopsided on
prosthetic legs:
 
The Yellow Pages,
upside-down
cast iron fry pan,
 
cushions ravished
raw to cotton entrails.
 
Mr. Sullivan
made it look hard, 
whether we even
needed a cheap
new sofa, while I,
taught to please,
complimented
his same-same tie, 
offered him water,
respectful, “Sir.”
 
Mother of a million
thanks, thespian.
 
& Mr. Sullivan
nodded fedora,
as if high courtesy.
 
You’re a credit to your race!
 
he said to me,
& decades later,
still stuck in my throat,
thicker even than
bitter government
peanut butter & cheese.
 

from Prompt Poem of the Month
April 2024

__________

Prompt: Write a poem with a single word as the title, in which
our understanding of that word shifts by the end of the poem.

Note from the series editor, Katie Dozier: “The brilliant economy of language in ‘Credit’ helps this poem knock on our door with authenticity. James further weaves us into the narrative with bold images, such as the upside down Yellow Pages and the cotton entrails of the cushions. When the dialogue hits and is allowed to hang in the air without much exposition, we too feel the slap, which reverberates with the transformative title.”

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May 6, 2024

Tony Gloeggler

ALL OF THEM

Down Syndrome Larry, my favorite
guy in the residence, the perfect
blend of Pillsbury Dough Boy
and Charlie Chaplin, all gap toothed
grins, warm cuddles and charm
bowing to kiss my aunt’s hand
when she gave him a silver dollar
the Christmas I brought him home,
pirouetting anytime a pretty girl
walked by on Smith Street. Making
faces, silly sounds for store owners,
the free zeppoles, black and white
cookies, Italian ices rolled in. Robert,
nicknamed Notre Dame after
the hunchback, bouncing along
like a string puppet and smiling
constantly, saying hello to everyone,
thank you, whenever someone
did anything, answering yes
to every question posed his way,
always got extra help, the most
attention from new workers. Others,
like Jimmy, never had a chance.
Hulking, plodding and drooling
like a fountain that never granted
anyone’s wishes, grabbing your arm,
only letting go after a tug of war,
his spit drying on you, stinking
the rest of the day. Still, Ethel,
Jose, Riviezzio loved him best
while I shook my head, baffled.
Be careful with James, the silent
type going about his business, big
and powerful, quietly creating
collages or scrolling on his iPad,
sweeping the floor, doing laundry,
emptying the garbage. Easy to forget
the times he exploded, overturning
his desk, the refrigerator, hurling
utensils at the ceiling lights, cracking
his teeth chewing on the area rug
in a rage. Still, he was the top
draft choice whenever anyone
wanted Dunkin’ Donuts, a soda
from the corner bodega, or took
a ride to fill up the van, pick up
prescriptions, the perfect guy
to sit shotgun, tap along to whoever’s
favorite station, carrying packages
and opening doors. Then there’s John.
Visitors, acquaintances love him.
He remembers everyone’s name,
smiles all the time, makes cocktail
conversation like he’s running
for office, never admits he had
a bad day, takes five minutes
to ask a question, twice as long
to make a decision. Sometimes,
I get so bored with him I need
to scream. I’m tempted to tell him
to shut the fuck up, never come
to my office except in an emergency
until I remember the time I stood
at the top of the staircase, heard him
grumble his way down about all
the fucking bullshit he puts up with
every damn day, that fucking Tony
breaking his balls. All of them. Like
me and you, like everyone we know.
 

from Rattle #83, Spring 2024

__________

Tony Gloeggler: “I started writing poetry because I was always pretty quiet and no one was really talking about things I was feeling and thinking. Trying to turn my thoughts into a poem helped me understand myself and how I fit and didn’t fit in the world. That’s still what I’m doing whenever I write. This one’s about the guys in the group home I managed (the place I fit best, where things made the most sense) and how so few people outside the residence viewed them like they viewed anyone else, how they’re mostly just like everybody else. A little nicer or nuttier, funnier, weirder, less guarded. How a couple of them are two of my favorite people ever, how they could sometimes annoy the crap out of me. And how I miss them (apologies to Lee and Florencio for not letting them in the poem but luckily they don’t read poetry just like nearly everybody else) and the staff. Especially Larry.” (web)

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May 5, 2024

John Arthur

I REACHED OUT AND AM AWAITING A RESPONSE

I’m the Lebron James
of local bureaucrats.
Give me a project
and I’ll manage it
step by step like a PMP
using the waterfall method.
I’m shooting eighty-three
percent with these
crumpled up reports,
my desk as a backboard
for this waste paper basket.
I’ve got ninety-nine
passwords stored in
my head and I can
estimate the total
square footage of a building
with just one glance.
I rotate the same
two pairs of pants.
And once per year
when I go to France
I refuse to check
my email. Someone else
can pick up the refuse.
I’m just eating snails
and strolling Montmarte
buying street art
which I’ll hang
from the walls
of my cubicle in city hall
hoping someone will ask
where I found it
but no one ever does
and look, it’s not that
I’m trying to stall
it’s just for each decision
I’ve gotta call
a committee. This shit
is still a democracy
even when the ballots
are clouded with Meta’s
pixelated prop gun smoke
and I denote
I shall not poke
the sleeping commissioner
who right now is bumbling
through a speech
written by a Rutgers
college intern who uses AI
to craft policy briefs
in their briefs and listen,
everyone knows New Jersey
spends the most
per square mile
on repaving its roads.
Pot holes like pock marks
on my face. With legal pot
to fill any shortfalls
in our budgets
which barely budge
even when everyone’s
taxes go up
faster than a luxury
apartment complex.
And before nodding
out I hear your voice
again and again saying
Yes, please hold,
I’ll transfer you now.
 

from Poets Respond
May 5, 2024

__________

John Arthur: “The Lakers lost in the NBA playoffs and my news feeds have been inundated with debate over whether Lebron James is the greatest basketball player of all time or whether it’s Michael Jordan. That prompted the ‘I’m the Lebron James of local bureaucrats’ opening, and the rest of the poem just came out basically as is. By the way, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar is the greatest of all time.”

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May 4, 2024

Lynne Thompson

PSALM FOR WORKING WOMEN

A microwave is my savior; I shall not starve.

It alloweth me to eat quickly. It leadeth me
to purchase Stouffers in bulk.

It restoreth dehydrated onions. It delivers me
from pre-heating for pre-heating’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley
of canned goods, I shall fear no tin containers
for plastics art with me and glass and ceramics,
they comfort me.

It preparest a roast turkey in thirty-six minutes;
four for carrots when they’re ’waved on HIGH.
My rumaki comes out crisp.

Surely, defrosting and warming shall follow me
all the days of my life and I shall dwell
in the land of a Hotpoint forever.

from Rattle #23, Summer 2009
Tribute to Lawyer Poets

__________

Lynne Thompson: “Although I was a civil litigator for more than fourteen years, the practice of law seldom, if ever, enters my poems. It’s as though that person has gone off for a long (and well-deserved) sleep and this poet—always bemused—has taken her place. I like her.” (web)

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May 3, 2024

Judith Fox

HOW IT HAPPENED

I thought I’d be at his side when he died.
Didn’t think I’d find his body,
 
relied on the clinician
who said his cancer will take time
 
to spread. But death struck my husband
with a lizard-quick tongue.
 
Snatched him as he was reading,
a torn theater stub tucked between pages
 
marking his place.
I was washing dishes a room away—a thin wall
 
apart—belting out songs
I’ll never sing again. Believing we had months,
 
thinking there was time enough
to dry a second cup.
 

from Rattle #83, Spring 2024

__________

Judith Fox: “I wrote nonfiction articles for national magazines, but didn’t start studying and writing poetry seriously until the spare text I wrote for my photography book, I Still Do: Loving and Living with Alzheimer’s rekindled my life-long love of poetry. (My father gave me A Child’s Garden of Verses on my fifth birthday; don’t ask me to recite ‘My Shadow’ unless you really want to hear it.) I’m twice-widowed and live in Los Angeles.” (web)

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