Loose gestures trail bright crocuses along
the edge of my bed. I have not been sleeping
or dreaming in black and white like he does
and here I am. Some form of copy cat.
My father loses every card hand he plays
but it never stopped him. Let me tell you about horses,
did you know they sleep lying down? In fields
full of strangeness. And my father, he
lives in a town abandoned for the unresting dead
to haunt slowly. And I keep gambling on
these horses that won't run west
like some horizon lit on fire. I am watching
my father settle his garden for evening
His arms, the quiet trees, our spines. He yawns
82. Ann Podracky + Izzy Roberts-Orr
His arms, the quiet trees, our spines. He yawns
I think, how long can this quiet last?
how long can my snare-drumming heart
beat softly till its sound wakes us?
but it is the wren that does, her small grey
body casts a sunlit flutter across our eyes.
standing, brushing moss from my clothes I know
this is a small end to another beginning.
the stutter and stop and start of
all that we will remember
long diminished, dried out like the leaves
small like the wren
sudden and swift, her mate appears to us
he dances—petaling and rooting us
83. Carina Finn + Joanna Valente
He dances — petaling and rooting us
A star in the sky took the lower road
snaking down like rambling light oozing past daybreak.
The dreamcatcher ripped itself to pieces
like flowers losing petals, falling nowhere.
All the world's a filing cabinet
hung haphazardly in the sky, swaying
like a latent cat in the summer breeze
and there we are, waiting for
something to give, a branch to crack
the seasons to quicksand and atrophy
much like planets dissolve
into new planets, different skies
a bear approaches, furred from nose to tail.
84. Jackie Braje + Stephen McDonnell
A bear approaches, furred from nose to tail
climbing a high-hollow for a honey-sweet song
color embellished by feathered chorus
singing tomorrow will be new, maybe
but today's feast is elk and bison carcass.
The sun is collimated into a narrow ring,
Gaia aroused, expands on her couch
peaches in hand, she eats deliberately.
Humans banished, the Tree of Life restored,
what better good than burying the pits in the dirt?
Earth now demands an oath of viriditas
or new pastures, whichever is better for the kids.
Fields await for our descendants to play
in flowers blue as our cropped fingernails.
85. Maya Bernstein + Mindy Kronenberg
In flowers blue as our cropped fingernails
in petals pale as ghosts in our shared dreams
surges a nectar sipped through gossamer wings
a healing balm for all the living things.
Veiled in sunlight, draped in moon beams,
our masked hope peeks through shuttered doors
out toward the perfumed air of spring, the calm
abode of breath of he who keeps the scores.
We stutter prayers to cope, blame the blight
on blossoms blue, wait for him to quench our thirst
in kind communion, sweet serum on the tongue.
The lung. Despair flits and flutters, at last alights;
each breath quietly implores mercy
and lumbers slowly forth to him for alms
86. Vanessa Nishikubo + Lora Tucker
And lumbers slowly forth to him for alms
Hands stretched, waiting as if for an answer
Her smile assumes an act of kindness
She wants to kneel, she wants to pray, but can't
ask him to join her, like a child afraid to play
without words he cradles her cheek and chants
Violet skies fill her eyes; intonations blankets her soul
candles lit, the cost of healing is paid
Humbled by the currency of hope
she no longer searches for answers
Her hands gently let go of the questions
She looks up, cries in praise of grace
For she was there to see him save
To lick his wide soft feet and upturned palms
87. Emi Bergquist + Anna Winham
To lick his wide soft feet and upturned palms
wounded and weak, I'd like him to be frank
with his fear, but he's furtive and shuffling
as if approaching verboten subjects
in the night, dressed to avoid
crowds, we move with shadows in alleyways
our secrets stuffed in our knapsacks, but
we like the inevitability of things left behind,
waiting with patience or enraged chained to the
potential of a subject in an unopened book
that both is and is not what you want it to be
like our mothers with all their complications
he's a knotted ribbon, turning into
A supplicant like me, awoken now
88. Pierce Logan + Sarah Flores
A supplicant like me, awoken now
By the hugging moon? Or its perfect howl?
Giving in to wasted light, bent like supple bough
How can we union, among deep valley?
Eyes are turned to ground and minds have turned to stone,
all of the organs shake in a basket.
His scant words are stuck to me like gristle to the bone,
in a desert with shadow puppets passed
Forty days wed with eighty more to go.
This life has proved a waking dream in skin,
for with burdened limb I reap as I sow
I search for seed and meaning in where I’ve been
patient pitch dark fate, waiting to be found.
By his faint tread like warm breath on cool ground.
89. Robert Whelan + Alex Neustein
By his faint tread like warm breath on cool ground,
I hear his footsteps fade as fast as morning mist.
Alone, I lie in bed, but then, this sound
That would not silence, instead it did persist.
At first did I mistake it for a knock,
Or was the house just creaking in the wind?
For rhythmic as a footfall or a clock,
Its measure was precise and disciplined.
It was Death that stalked me in the dark.
In frozen fear, I await Its cold embrace.
With mortal aim it chose me as its mark.
Gasping my breath leaves without a trace.
And so I speak from deep within my tomb,
Cries annually come springs brightening bloom.
90. Kate Belew + Jackie Braje
Cries annually come springs brightening bloom
Jogging through twilight, clouds separate to reveal
And when stars colour the sky, Our eyes will grip the new identity
We shall overcome, the poster that will colour our faces
behind the screens, as the cases multiply,
And voices get twisted ,land of silence sounds with shovels
scooping and slamming to rebuild what could be
Destruction knocks , with its anxiety-laden voice
Deserted streets vomits sirens , a day turns blue
with omens. Does fear make or let one retreat?
Strength.Does it break the walls of the healthy?
As the storm clouds blur back together, my heartbeat slows,
My pulse adjusts fitting the heart rhythm, no breath catches the cadence
Does true beauty make or let one cry out?
91. Advocate of Wordz + Abigail Palen
Does true beauty make or let one cry out?
If this has happened to you, there can be no doubt
in my mind - one is right, and one is wrong. Not to say
one is always expected to place a tear on display,
or play impassioned wails over the speakers in the crowded hall.
But if it feels like music to your eyes, and the layers start to fall
away - then congratulations! You’ve found something beautiful, assuming you care
to look long enough, staring beyond the glint and glare
of the glass. It sits smugly before you, pristine save for fingerprints smudging
its cape. Its cage. Its mask, it’s perspective nudging
your eyes and hands away from its prize. Your voice is all that’s left
and all that matters. Beauty can strip you down to your greatest asset -
in its absence, your voice only whimpers, and decays. Unrelated,
I haven't touched grass in 47 days.
92. Stephanie Gish + Victoria Rodriguez
I haven't touched grass in 47 days
Felt the morning dew tickle my toes
but it was only a dream, i suppose
Continuing to daydream, sun’s rays-
Suns rays outline stark shadows in alleyways
It guides me to the east-side windows
Where the flowers used to grow, I’m in limbo
Dancing on reality’s threshold
freely flowing, breathless and glowing
Spirit, mind and body juxtaposed
swaying eyes closed, this is the place I go
Fantasy interpose yesterday
Was insanity overload and marigolds
Blue grass, dead grass, my head's a bouquet
93. Kelly O'Rourke + Karla Winslow
Blue grass, dead grass, my head's a bouquet
Its florid aperture beats like a hummingbird, clipped
Without wing to take flight or throat to sing
My eyes drink in the glossed clamor of screens
Though no one there or here returns my gaze
Podcasts sub for laughs, scarves morph into masks
All we leave unsaid rims this bitter cup
Sun rises and sets, the breath exalted
In ritual as I wash my hands again
Flipflop from annoyance to gratitude
I pluck May’s first blooms like resonant strings
Marvel at intrinsic begin-agains
And leave wreaths ringing at mourners’ doors:
It is unfortunate but true and necessary
94. Sophia Giudici + Vasvi Kejriwal
It is unfortunate but true and necessary
that the living must mourn death with fresh life
and life slowly becomes a sediment of memory
As we bury love with new leaves and grieve
not for what was gone, but for what remains after they left:
the endless moments we must live bereft;
so many words we wish were never left unsaid;
the last things that now lie with our departed.
Today, the morning is still like a lake.
We hold each other together, lest we break.
The trees whisper sermons under their breath.
Elegies rise from nature’s rustling breeze.
I want to stand here until I become a tree.
Every orchid reminds me of my mother
95. Brenda Backus + Calen Osvald
Every orchid reminds me of my mother
Difficult to tend to but beautiful and majestic to behold
Whether rain or shine; to have to sift to find it fighting for it's place to glow
Bilateral symmetry of the epiphytic houseplants bloom and grow
I tend to ponder the resiliencies of nature
Ebbing and flowing in disdain of humanity’s effects
Ceaselessly succeeding in achieving breathless beauty
Reverent scents pours from the fragrant root
Reminding me, though unseen, roots can set us free
Earthing with my naked feet, Digging in the dirt with my bare hands
The daily dose of forward motion leaves impressions behind
Beleaguered notions of childhood echoes in my memory
I've learned the path behind is not a curse at all, in fact:
Footprints, too, are a kind of offering
96. Emi Bergquist + Kate Belew
Footprints, too, are a kind of offering
when there's nothing left to feed the children
this forward motion in almost sand
sinking like a promise to come home
to something like a handful of water
I sip slowly, remembering how thought follows
a strange train in the sand. So what
if I can't touch my toes or bake a decent loaf of bread
I know there are aliens out there, which is better
than believing in God or trusting the government
and trust me, I am not able to do either of those things
but I do celebrate the rain when it's been hot for so long
the thunder, I welcome it. Earth to bone rattling.
What do you know about making windows?
97. Keaton Anderson + Mackenzie Jones
what do you know about making windows?
About glass panels and what's behind them
Seemingly clear but with vague reflection
How do you shape deceit's frame?
A fixed foundation around distorted panes
And beyond them, inside them, us tired shadows
What do you know about building walls?
A much more honest process, to be sure
Raised to block the light from passing
Shut out voices whose mouths I can't control
Pull the blinds on their lies and deception
But then retreat, inside my walls and windows, to drown in my silence
I long to push the door open
Critics be damned I won't try
98. Stephanie Berger + Jackie Braje
Critics be damned I won't try
to please anyone here unless
you swallow this handful of holy sand
and tell me if land can truly belong
to a body—the old wolves grinning
at the rabbits, they tip their hats
to the tales that pass from one generation
to the next, paper dominoes in flames
disrupting the entire industry of fire
with their extinguishing truths.
My father used to sell them by the
dozens, in the business of multiplying need
door-to-door, an ocean-to-desert desire
to pretend I'm some cold genius
99. Susan Dyer + Dahlia Baeshen
to pretend I’m some cold genius
just out of the Arctic, poetry stuffed in my parka’s pockets.
It fell out on the ice;
my mother’s osseous dice. Wait, my flight!
I couldn’t catch it.
Yet, now I am seated. What time zone please?
I am tired of the terrestrial.
The stewardess drolls, “Fasten your seatbelt.”
I’m not there. It takes off.
Wake now; nightgown dusted with frost.
It melts on me like a frightening dream.
Yes, cold. No, a genius I am not.
I realize, I am walking inside out
The moon changes faces but it doesn’t hide it
100. Karen Mangold + Jessie Hutt
The moon changes faces but doesn’t hide it
Freckled and pocked by the weight of delight
The sunshine will come, to shine in the darkness
Bathing the moon in its heavenly light
Below the zone of blue, above the depths of salts
Their love hangs in the balance, a drop of dew that’s caught
Or lingers between the pause of a breath
So beautiful and yet impossible to touch
All at once pulled by invisible torque
Two lovers performing a celestial dance
Each step they grace bound by crashing waves
One to the other forever entranced
A pure animalistic urge that remains
The little grey dog in love with its chains