April 2024
Bio Note: The world is definitely too much with us, in one way or another, these days; hence this selection. I hope everyone in the VV family is faring well, all things considered. My sixth full-length book of poems, If Only There Were Stations of the Air (Sheila-na-Gig Editions) should be just out as this April issue of V-V is published; my ninth collection, a chapbook entitled Oh Memory, You Unlocked Cabinet of Amazements! will be released by Bamboo Dart Press in June. Apartness, my memoir in essays alternating with poems, is in press at Inlandia Books.
Cold Spring Night
You draw the down comforter over your chest,
your eyes already half-closed,
and it seems itself to respire, taking in
a deep breath, then gently deflating—
and then you reach down again to pull
the old quilt over it, your fingertips brushing
the softness wrought by numerous spins
in the washing machine,
and then you pat the quilt flat
below your neck—as you would
smooth out the soil around a tiny sapling
you’ve just planted—as if wishing
yourself tender dreams, perhaps,
as you used to wish sweet ones
for your children who used to ask
to be tucked in—and behind those almost completely
vanished flashes, the vaguest shadows
hold their peace: your child self
in a narrow bed, kissed on the forehead,
the corner night light glimmering on,
the room dimmed...
What have you done in your life
to melt into this time-sum
of quietness and calm, not to be one
of the beautiful children or their mothers—
displaced for years—lying on stony ground
in torn tents shaken by hot winds
blowing gritty dust?
Originally published in Verdad 31, Fall, 2021.
Leaving
If fire raged at the other end
of my street, and I had to escape,
I would object
But my desk is a mess—
Honestly, I need to Marie Kondo
the whole house, to find
what to take.
In the midst of war, I would speak up
like that old woman in Bakhmut
who resisted her rescuer’s Let’s go!
with I need to pack grapes, and maybe
some sort of pancakes,
because even an apartment
with no heat in a building blasted
by a bomb pulses like a neutron star
HOME HOME HOME.
When the Angel of Death arrives
at my door with Lethe-by-IV
for my pain, my brain will obsess—
But I haven’t decided yet
whether to leave my diaries to the kids,
or burn them. And there are dishes
festering in the sink. And we’re going
next week with our best friends
to that new French rest—
Originally published in Offcourse 94, September, 2023.
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to say what it is about the poem you like. Writing to the author is what builds the community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -JL