Years, sitting up nights, just sitting and knowing. For the first time I witnessed my long-lived suspicions. You made her laugh. You shouldn’t have done that. I hear you whistling in the wind. Click-click-clicking your pen, tap-tap-tapping your pipe, keys jangling telling me its time for another slashing from your tongue. You’ve whittled me down to a bloody sliver. My mind moans as you turn the corner, I wish you were dead. I hate this place you love. I hate this ocean, its coves and bays. Our dock, the lapping water, your sharp profile cutting into the burning dawn. Providence topples your hulking ego over the edge. No need for my helping hand to push you out of my future. Affectionate ropes hugging round your caught legs did the rest. I watch Your desperate hands slap the surface in explosions of light. Schooling silver fish surround you in twinkling pirouettes. My attention toward their grace, toward you gawp, gawp, gawping in airless water. The undersurface green garden sways and waves. My mind dives to the depths. You, sinking soundly into slumber to a bottomless bed. And just like that tender lapping water returns erasing a crystal-clear death. Swallowed by the ocean’s appetite. He swam out to meet the morning’s dawn, Nothing ever found of him, I say. Gathered loved ones memorialize you on our shore. The sea, preparing for its next meal with its salty-smelling brine, froths at the mouth, licks its chops. It makes me think of her. An egret stands stock-still in solemn salute. The sand and gossip squirms beneath my feet. Why would she lay her grief here, at the foot of tragedy? Subjecting us to his place of drowning? they whisper. Have you ever heard of anything so morbid? another mutters. Family and friends offer their two-faced words, I have two that will not be uttered: adulterer, abuser. Without you the water now caresses my feet and it is your chair that waits cold, in the dark. Four months, each unremarkable act, morning footsteps, bite of toast, every first without you I float closer to freedom. I live minute by minute. I did not lose you all at once but woman by woman, vicious word by word, wallop by wallop. The large window overlooking you, your watery grave reminds me I am left alone, safely alive in my warm wrinkling skin.
Chant Rant
Fuck cracked cuticles that won’t heal. Fuck dust that must be vacuumed from the floor. Fuck toilets that need scrubbing. Fuck sweaters that catch on knobs and jar the shit out of me. Fuck the fucking knobs that catch sweaters! Fuck migraines. Fuck stomachs that can’t digest knotted fear. Fuck ears for ringing, teeth for yellowing, eyes for crying, jaws for clenching, skin for sagging, jowls for aging. Fuck brains that don’t remember the word…I can’t remember which word. Fuck that word for not remembering me. Fuck spinal tap results that say: Multiple Sclerosis. Fuck spinal taps results that inexplicably say: No Multiple Sclerosis. Fuck dying of lung cancer. Fuck cysts in gallbladders. Fuck pre-cancerous cells in bowels. Fuck you for forcing me to fight in the womb. Fuck you for committing suicide. Fuck hopelessness. Fuck this pandemic. Fuck this perverted cowardly world for not reckoning with our sadistic butchery of animals that caused this pandemic. Fuck wearing masks. Fuck you for not wearing a mask. Fuck depraved hunters who trap a coyote and chop its foot off while it’s still alive just for “fun.” Fuck the Ukrainian mother living in Russia for not believing her daughter who says she’s being bombed in Kharkiv. Fuck Russian state TV for brainwashing that mother so she doesn’t believe her own daughter. Fuck tolerating the fools who believe these lies. Fuck me for believing the US government is democracy’s beacon. Fuck …another world war. Fuck not being pretty. Fuck the brilliant sun. Fuck that pillowy cloud. Fuck that golden retriever, no that’s going too far, but fuck every other fucking thing in the last eight unrelenting years.
Poppy the Pig Flies
She laid the scheme late one night to try her chance at airy flight. She tip-hooved past her parents’ bed and placed a hat snug on her head. She wanted the question settled soon, “What kind of surface is the moon?” Her hooves began to flap and rise as though impatient for the skies; then at last she vaulted clear. The ground began to disappear. A wind whirl swooped her like a kite as she squealed in pure delight. But as she rose things ran afoul with swatting trees and screaming owls. And when she passed some heavy clouds she greeted moistened feathered crowds. Convinced she must be near her prize since earth looked smaller in its size, but when she turned, she felt dismay, the moon was still so far away. She huffed and puffed and tried her best, but knew she needed time for rest. Then slowly landing safe and sound the daring Poppy touched the ground. Startled sheep in wide-eyed wonder, “Who woke us from our comfy slumber?!” Out of breath but proud as can be, Poppy proclaimed quite gleefully, “Next time I’ll get there, wait and see!”
Isabella Betances
Look to the Light
Look to the light when you are born,
placental abruption, fingers twisted in inherited shame.
Look to the light when you drop the pass,
and father turns away then makes you run home.
Look to the light when your face erupts,
pocks of blemishes elicit mocks from your peers.
Look to the light, boy, look to the light.
Look to the light when mother speaks with her fists,
your only contact in two weeks.
Look to the light when the cop hunts runaways,
the shelter is ahead and there might be a bed.
Look to the light when you steal the egg sandwich,
the cameras don’t work. Hide it up your sleeve.
Look to the light, boy, look to the light.
Look to the light when they hold your body down in Centennial Park,
there’s too many to fight. Let them have their way.
Look to the light when you fumble for the bright neon balloons of H,
check your burner. Fiends need their fixes.
Look to the light when the clinic nurse brings the antiretrovirals.
Let her be good to you. Her kindness is blinding.
Look to the light, look to the light.
There’s a fight in you, boy.
Look to the light.
The following poem is a response to the painting featured in this article.
Blue for the sorrow of her family for the collective horror of the whole world watching for the box that should have held her engagement ring. Blue for the uniform that kept them ol’ boys safe for the raid that was blown for the door they insisted on busting down. Blue for calm, for intuition, for relief for both flag and seal of her city for the Ohio River and its spectral tranquility. Blue because red and blue lights might bleed into a regal purple but no knocking of your tools on my noble easel, not today. Blue means reckless execution of operations and meddling means no justice, no peace means dead interrupted arrested ripped apart bruised and broken. Blue for unserved justice. Blue for Breonna.
Telling Time
Telling Time
1. I tempt.
I twinkle at him from the shop window, among icy diamond cuffs and cool Mikimoto pearls, and he ducks inside to escape the oppressive Singapore heat.
His Omega was just stolen, but he is taken by me.
He hides from sunlight. He is hides from the bottles in his hotel fridge, and the ones undoubtedly lined up at the company dinner tonight.
Turning me over in his hands, he beams. My gold and silver links wink, glinting memories of running down dirt roads in South Carolina, of putting himself through college, of his wedding day.
I am the didn’t-buy-vodka watch.
I am the hard-work-pays-off watch.
Suddenly his mouth is dry, absent of the sharpness of alcohol.
He swallows hard and produces his credit card.
2. I think.
I rattle nervously on his wrist as he paces the floors of the hospital.
Six-thirty. It must be six-thirty.
His first grandchild, overdue by weeks. I’m unfamiliar with lateness.
I expect, and so does he.
Presuming due dates, anticipating,
we operate with numbers.
Crisp, clean outlines.
The engineer and the engineered.
He holds me to his ear.
I’m wound. I’m fine. She’s coming.
A nurse delivers good news in a swish of soft pink scrubs.
He checks me. Six thirty-six.
3. I trust.
There’s padding of little-girl feet as Granddaughter moves from bedroom
to playset to the threshold of his door. Three tiny knocks.
She climbs into his lap and he slips me over her tiny wrist. Then, before he follows suit with his college class ring, he holds it up to the light so she
can see the amethyst change color.
Their routine.
I’m the third-wheel.
I feel safe with her. I feel held by her.
Duplicitous, I tug the fine sable hair along her forearm.
She pulls a face.
Mommy said silver and gold don’t go together.
He belly laughs. So does she. My second hand shakes slightly in return.
4. I torture.
There’s padding of grown-girl feet as Granddaughter moves
through the silent house to the threshold of his door.
No knocks, just silence, hanging heavy as the wool coats in his closet.
If she finds me in my silver dish, it means there really was an accident.
Briefly she flashes to the time she had the stomach flu, and terrified by her own impending waves of nausea, she ran to her Pa-Pa’s room, hand clapped
over mouth and hiccupping bile that pooled on the floor.
He swallowed his vexation then but now she knows the stained carpet pained him.
She swallows her tears, hot and salty, and peers down at me in my cold cradle.
Here I am, ticking. Waiting for him, beating on, as his own heart
has been stopped for days.
Collecting dust in my torpor. Her soft finger traces my face. I thrum to life.
5. I trigger.
Fighting.
The air is thick as the murky pond that claimed Pa-Pa.
Mom isn’t looking at Auntie. Auntie will only speak to Grandma.
Granddaughter’s hands clasp tightly around my green box beneath the table, beads of her palms’ perspiration nearly causing my velvet home to slip
through her fingers.
I am her olive branch. I am meant to diffuse the tension.
But I belong to her.
When Cousin gingerly accepts the box, I feel taken. Yanked
from her. Does he know I was promised to her?
Does he know what I mean to her?
I forever tick slightly softer for him.
Academic Year 2022
Amani Almadani – Butterfly
Although you were not blood related to me, you were and always will be more than that in my heart. You always made other people smile, but you never smiled by yourself. I am grateful to have met you, simply at my mother's doctor's office. You then became my aunt, and you always took care of me. I remember all the weekends at different Mexican restaurants, we ate like there was no tomorrow, oh how much you loved your enchiladas, then we would come back home just to eat some more. We would drive everywhere in your big black Jeep, you would sing Marc Anthony at the top of your lungs. I would get embarrassed at how loud you would be in public places, I was so young, but I would do anything to have that again. You’d make my mom smile from ear to ear and laugh, and you’d also make sure all the beer would disappear. Sitting outside in your garden on sunny or gloomy days, a garden that took you hours to perfect, reminding me that every time I see a butterfly, to remember you. After all the times you yelled at me for burping out loud, and said no boy would date me because of it, I wish you I could meet my boyfriend now. You’d hear the both of us burping, and I finally won't be the only one getting yelled at. I saw you a month before your passing, I was only 16 years old. Te quiero mucho, Tía.
Jewls Douge – Stratford’s Miniature Forest
In the isolated forest area within Connecticut, there flows ghostly vibes.
To maps and pedestrians
It is unfamiliar, all within this quiet state.
The air is fresh, ripely plants
BLOSSOM when walking the small path.
Graciously welcoming you to their home
Oddly, no one is sure of how the path was made, but
This heart could pump
even when it’s out of the body.
Before heading to Pender’s field for the senior games, you’d probably lie against the oak in the middle.
A place within a home. You’ll never fully grasp.
A secret place for me and you, for wanderers and coyotes.
Austin Chong – Buffet
Raw fish wrapped in rice Delicious salmon galore Always my first choice Next to the heat lamp Juicy red meat right below Medium rare please Balance greens come next Chinese broccoli is best All potato dishes Fruit bowl of all fresh Watermelon cantaloupe Grapes honeydew too Ice cream always last Strawberry and coffee scoops Fried donuts if fresh
Carolyn Van Arsdale – A Wake Up Curse
Dddringg ddringg, Dddringg ddringg,
Roll over, hit snooze, Catch some Z's,
Dddringg ddringg, Dddringg ddringg,
Roll over, hit stop, Roll on back, rub eyes, hold in hand,
PING, New Tinder Match, Slide left, clear,
PING, Today is Sam Levi and 3 other Friend's Birthdays, Slide left, clear,
PING, Biden and Trump to face off tonight in Tennessee, Tap, open, read, Thumb x2 on home, Swipe up Thumb x1 on home,
PING, You haven't logged your breakfast calories yet, do it now! "Ugh, shut up," Slide left, clear,
PING, Connor Murphy Accepted Your Follow Request, Connor Murphy Requested to Follow Your Account, Tap, open, accept Connor Murphy's request, Tap on Connor Murphy, Scroll down, Tap on post of Connor and some other chick, Tap Instagram home, Scroll **30 minutes later**
PING, Janevanars sent you 12 TikToks, Tap, open, see conversation, "HAHAhAHahaha," Scroll,
**1 hour later**
PING, Reminder: Dentist Appt. in 15 minutes, "FUCK."
Daniel Fore – Scars
I want to make my daddy understand No, I need him to understand What is wrong with me loving another man? Just because I don’t like girls, doesn’t mean that I’m any less your kin Just because I'm not the way you want me to be, doesn't mean that I’m strange It’s getting colder in here, it's getting harder to breathe I want to open the door and just fly free But there’s a lock and the people around me have the key They keep on pushing me back inside I’ve been confined to these walls for a long time I don’t want to be in constant fear of living my life Reading the news and being mortified Of the crimes against people being themselves amplified By the fact that some would rather drink cyanide Than live with the pain of freely being who they truly are And being scared of scars I’m scared of getting them scars And getting looked at like I’m from Mars Worried about what my friends will do when they find out What they will talk about I don’t have any doubt That what they say will make me want to scream and shout Has me wondering if it’s worth it to try
Shaniya Krausse – Loan Oaks
Cigarette smoke lingered in the air, Old rock and roll played in the background. As the big sign “Lone Oaks Campground” approached, My brother and I began to count down. We passed corn fields, and farmland with horses and cows. Every Friday, my mom would pull us out of school early, I always looked forward to that. As we arrived, we headed towards the field. And once our site was located, I exited the car, breathing in the fresh air. It smelled like campfire smoke, and I knew I was home. Mom and dad began to crank the pop-up camper open. My brother and I unloaded the truck Of all the different types of wood. Dad worked in a lumber yard all our lives, he made sure we knew what was what: Cedar, cherry, oak, birch, maple, pine. As my parents continued to set up camp, My brother and I ran to the office to get the activities sheet. Every hour, they offered Capture the flag, kickball, basketball, dodgeball, Arts and crafts in the rec hall, bingo later in the evening.
Janelle Pompea – My Mother’s Home
But she never left home: Trinidad, My mother’s accent still lingers when she speaks, foreign to others mom’s voice to me “I’m making paster for dinner” she prepares bake n’ bacalao for breakfast. Her children- half here, half home her family- some here, some home she traded her coconuts for apples and her beaches for lakes.
But she never left home: my mother she moved but she did not leave Trinidad planted the seed, America grew the flower- the roots remain at home. Her heart the shape of an island spews warmth during the New England winter, home sends for her every February followed by March’s post Carnival depression, she welcomes spring with Cuban rum It's not that she never left home, home never left her.
Carissa J. Larruiz – There is No Oxygen in Space
I tend to look up to the sky When I’m sad, hoping that This sorrow will fly so high To the clouds and let my tears fall flat To become the heavy rain on a summer day. And I desire to get lost in space By counting an infinite amount of stars along the way. My presence will leave no trace. Should I give up now Or should I continue painting constellations Free-minded alone, throughout this runaway vow? And I will endlessly dance with my self-aspirations To calm the river flooding from my eyes In the reflection of the moon’s euphoric disguise.
Chloe Kelly – Drenched
I turn the handle clockwise ever so slightly But then I freeze as ice cold spears hit my thin naked body
Here I stand Alone Frozen in place I hurt all over So, I just stay standing And all I can do is ruminate while those spears still jab me
In the very same spot, where I stand now, is where he fell Hit his head and bled to death It made cleaning up easy, the blood just trickled down the drain That was two years ago yet it feels like yesterday Since his passing, time is unhurried and so am I
I look down at my feet
They are ruby red yet I still shiver
I need to rotate the handle counterclockwise now or I will never get out
One step forward as I force my trembling hand My body jerks but I finally reach the handle
Turn goddamnit!
I rotate too far But I do nothing
And here, I still stand alone as I continue to hurt all over But all I can do is ruminate while fiery hot spears jab me
Liam Hannon – Play Hard
I wonder what da Vinci felt like when he made the Mona Lisa?
Did he think it would happen to be something literally
Everybody would see and talk about?
Or did he just think of it as another painting?
Maybe he thought it was similar to his helicopter
Or airplane, never meant to fly off the ground.
Maybe he was too hard on himself
And he didn’t even enjoy it.
I imagine if I could create my own Mona Lisa
And see it the way other people look at da Vinci’s work
I could probably live on that feeling
At least for a while.
Jake Nannariello – Zealot’s Plea
Harken to me, sons and daughters Of our high and mighty lord! Cleanse our holy home of heathens. Let them feel His burning scorn. Snag them, drag them from their hovels. Let them face His holy gaze. Stack the pyre, light the fire. Set the heretics ablaze. Cinder, tinder, singe the sinners. Bind and tie them, raise them high. Char and torch them, sear and scorch them. Watch the blaze intensify. Flailing, wailing, flames assailing. Fire laps and licks their skin. Hear the faithless cry for mercy, Blind to their own dire sins. Flames are scathing, bodies bathing, In the conflagration’s grasp. They have spurned Him. Now we burn them. Roast the pagans ‘till they’re black. Bodies wither with the wicker Into soot upon the ground. Blaze is fading, naught remaining, But a smoking, ashen mound. Joy! Elation! Celebration! His will has been done this day. Sin has burgeoned in God’s kingdom, So we’ll burn it all away!
Before 2022
Esteban Osegueda – The Driver
The engine revs As the car turns on. Loud and ready, As I keep my foot on the pedal steady. I shift gears, As I am on the highway, while I steer. A loud BOOM BOP. I frowned. I knew this situation was full of doom. The car flipped and landed face down. I parried pieces of piercing glass flying towards my face. Car Car Car Where did it all go wrong? Now, you leave me with scars scars scars. Saying I have no feet, ain’t so discreet. I suppose it is my fault, I should have just come to a complete halt. Being drunk, Everything about it stunk.
Bond Biryani – Ammi (Mother) – Syria
Having dinner with Ammi (mother) after our evening prayers, I still remember her glimmering eyes as She fed me soup from her bowl. Dusk grew into a dark, silent night as the sun went down, The moon hid behind a cloudy gown, She kissed me tenderly as I went for oil To massage her feet, she winced as she Lied on the off white cotton bed sheet, I glanced out the window, oh the aroma of trees and soil, The sounds of silence and birds, the humming of bees I reached up the shelf and got the oil, As off I went, I heard a shriek from outside, I witnessed a broken star shooting across the sky, I watched in awe as it glared against the pitch black night, I felt a poke against my heart, felt a heat rise against me as it got bright, I saw as it grew sharper than light I stood frozen against this dreary sight, I heard my ammi screech from far, calling my name as everything went dark, I saw her fading in a sway, Screaming I reached out but she went away, An eternity later my eyes opened and I looked around, Everything was smoky and hazy, there was no sound, All I heard were cries of hope dying against the fire, I looked for my family in the smoke but to no avail. Under the fiery haze, I saw a heart wrenching site, She laid there in front of me, my dearest ammi, I still remember that night, and her beautiful face, I remember that sight, all it took was a matter of moments For my life to become a never ending fight. The taste of soup still lurking in my mouth, still had the oil on my hands, When my ammi faded away in the faraway lands, I still look at the sky with a mired heart, A broken star fulfills a wish but this one tore my dreams apart, I still visit the place, nothing left but debris and my razed fate, I have a future big as a sea, I still have a life ahead of me, But all I ever wanted was a spoon of soup from my ammi.
musingsncc.com 