Our
hearts
were
two
kites
tangled
in a
tree. A tree
called
Malady.
A name
I
misheard
as
Melody. Melody
was
the song I
sang
of the tree,
wrong
for years
until
it withered
&
we wept to find
ourselves
free.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
hostage
on the bus I pluck poems from street debris
the
road ripples in each driver’s wake
concrete
waves lap against each tire
beating
for the pavement’s heart
ba-bum
ba-bum, ba-bum ba-bum
I
am tossed in clusters of passengers, unbound
and
abandoned, eyes locked as I sway, the empty body
is
a container,
the container is whistling
from
the smallest crack in the frame to rattle
like
grandpa’s mint tin by the drivers seat
permission
to open the container
to
take and to close with breathless aspirations
to
not disrupt the eye of any other controller
a
rider who watches you or a driver, stiff
at
the wheel I whisk past
to
pour out on the street
assembling
on my feet
the
heels slam in
combat
I
storm sidewalks drilling forward
anger
is one remaining act of power
a
firm walk isn’t running away, a pulsing
stride
never looks uncertain, it implies
focus,
strong intentions are a costume
a
cloak which makes men stop noticing you
repulsed
by femme faces which focus or scowl
they
skip stiff women for the sweet genteel
women
who bruise like softened fruit.
Brisk
and severe, I walk going nowhere.
I
walk to hear my anger hit the pavement, to snap
twigs
and clear paths I race to pluck each street
out
of another victims future poems
my
holed soles hide unnoticed, until rain starts to fall
and
quicker than the drops can soak into my canvass shoes,
my
soles already draw standing water from the street.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
One version starts with villagers smiling,
their smocks rough with pine, their eyes squeezed
shut
from all the sun. Oranges dot their thoughts in place
of periods. Ordinary soil cruds their phone
booths.
Observing custom, nothing goes to waste: they
fuck
on top of flags to stripe them beautiful
with sweat.
Oldest daughters are unionized. October wind
reweights the branches until red apples swing,
brave & shy. One morning, there’s a vote to name the land,
“which is required for official tax
purposes,” & all at once,
it’s barren. Olive groves give out. Observing custom,
villagers accept that they can’t fix the world
nor desist from it, either. On cue, they form a circle
in the dirt, where everyone starts arguing. Over time,
this works: the fruit trees reacclimate;
blossoms
vowel-out in budding green. Old villagers finish
sweeping
around their condos, which everyone calls
“a good sign.” Occasionally, allrightniks still lean out
car windows to yell “Give up!” or “Move to
the city!”
but
the villagers only nod
&
cast smiles obscurely as seeds into the dirt.
the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan
