Tuesday poem #647 : Ronna Bloom : Things he said the last time we visited

 

You smell like cloves and eucalyptus.

Please spray some of that in my sleeves.

I'll have a popsicle, lemon.

Do you have more of that foot energy?

Is the canister full?

Thank you.

I love you.

I like that sweater.

It makes sense you're here during these gnostic rituals.

I hope to go to Bridgepoint and have a big

end of life celebration with all my friends.

Do you consider yourself a therapist or a witch?

I've always liked citrus. 

It's the earth's magnetic field.

You're like the mother I need now. You are
the mother I need now.

I'd like to try the mango lassi.

 

 

 

 

Ronna Bloom [photo credit: Mary Lemke] is the author of seven collections of poetry, most recently A Possible Trust: The Poetry of Ronna Bloom, selected with an introduction by Phil Hall (WLUP, 2023). She has collaborated with architects, filmmakers, and choreographers and has brought poetry into health care. Her new book, In a Riptide, will be out with Brick Books in fall 2025. ronnabloom.com

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday poem #646 : arien wolf : I can see my mother’s outline but not her shape

 

like the sharp point of her nose or
the way her softness fades into angles 
as she loses her mind to the tide
pools of thick water placed
up to her lips to live, a bit longer
wading, waiting to swim, finally to be
free from this washed up shore
she leaves behind her outline, nothing more 

her flaring nostrils burn in images
she lies down now but memory tricks 
someone still left standing above me
I see her eyes open only when I dream
but they are not her eyes, another
amalgamation of god, father, sky, all
wrapped up between her belly and the hurt
doe nursing its wounds out the window, 
fawn following without question in tow

 

arien wolf lives and writes poetry in washington

their work is concerned with identification, politics

of care, and making space for what won’t resolve

they’ll begin an mfa program at uc irvine this fall

 

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan