Poetics

Dream Uncovered

~By Kate Marlow

 

Sifting through the boxes

of a forgotten childhood

I found something small, self-crafted,

almost disposable:

a first novel.

(Maybe I should just say “novel,”

as first might imply

something that follows.)

Fanning the pages,

dust sprouting into a miniature

mushroom cloud,

I revisit the about-the-author:

she is an aspiring writer.

Two decades have passed,

self-doubt pervades,

yet I still swallow hard

at the notion that the dream

remains

in the box in the basement.

Thursdays. Days of Forgiveness.

~ By Kate Marlow

Thursdays were always the best days growing up. It was skating day. My dad would come home early from work and pick me up. I would run up the stairs and put my skating outfit on—a mint colored skating dress embellished with sparkles that I would pull on over my nude colored tights. Everything about the day was stretchy and forgiving. It was before I felt the pressure to skip the cookies or run a mile. It was just after my dad moved back in. We would get in the car and head to Wendy’s. I would get a hamburger, “protein to help you skate well,” my dad would say. When we would arrive at the rink, we would walk to the balcony, my dad carrying my bag, me shivering from the musty dankness that filled my lungs and made me want to cough. He would sit in the office on a stool overlooking the rink and play the program music. “Maria. Julie, you are next,” his voice would boom. And, as the music filled the white, cold space, I would forget the day’s pressures of friends and homework, I would lose myself to Chopin, I would learn how to forgive and forget.

 

Moving Day: August 1st

~By Kate Marlow

They left this world just as they came into it:

Sad

                  Overwhelmed

                          Overjoyed at the next pass

Suitcases in hand

their foreheads glistening under the weight

of the baggage they carried.

 

Just like an echo ringing off of the buildings,

laughter trailing into my ears of days past;

Just like the ripple of the skipping stones

their dreams reverberating off of the surface.

 

As I followed them out

fitting my feet into their footprints

one in front of the other,

I hit the light switch

looking back on the space we inhabited

and watched the light bulb still glowing with excitement.

The Missing Groom

~By Kate Marlow

We gathered together to celebrate a coming apart
of two people.

300+ guests
Gucci, Prada, Versacci--they were all there
sporting their latest.
The tables were dressed with care,
white roses, white linen sparkling.
Even the mayor had something to say.

We gathered together to celebrate a life
gone before us.

The piano player donned his throne
to play the repertoire
of favorites, sprinkling the keys
with life.

We gathered together to celebrate the memory-
maker, Mr. Past, living on.

The chocolate mouse finished the evening,
bowing to only the coffee
as one after another bared all.

We gathered together to celebrate one
who has gone away
a groom missing from his party.
The host who has skipped out
on the hostess too early,
the evening still young.

Oh, Mr. Time, where have you gone?

He responded,
"Nothing, not even tomorrow,
is promised."

Oh, Mama

~By Kate Marlow

You opened the trap door
and I fell through
Down
    Down
        Down
to the world below.

You gave me a sense of place,
a sense of opportunity
like a little lark learning
to fly
    fluttering
        on the brink
until its wings kick in.

When the man left
the women ruled the roost
working, bonding, together
playing in the puddles of our solitude
as the rain pounded the world around us.

Oh, Mama, thank you
for building up the nest around me
securing the twigs
ensuring that I didn’t fall
    Out.

Oh, Mama, thank you
for providing food
throughout droughts and storms
our bellies full and our eyes
    Sleepy.

Oh, Mama, thank you
for letting me go
when I needed to seek out
my own land, but still
    remaining close by
        so I could always come home
when I needed to.

Oh, Mama, thank you.

The Remaking

~By Sara Harenchar

You were waiting
in dirt crusted, mangled jeans,
sunned skin from the yard's labor,

inviting grin - the smell of you -
salty sweat and paint thinner,
your presence like a long drive
with the freshly cut grass
sneaking into the car.

Your hands - enormous on
the rough wood, the wood you
earned, the wood you loved
to shape and animate. 

Alone, you went many mornings
to that abandoned shack,
animals breeding or dying inside,
leaves and mud waiting for you,
you wishing away the heat
with each task completed, 

the remaking coming slow,
steady.

When I first saw what you built,
asking what I could do,
I felt like a trespasser - 
wanted but not belonging,
coming too late.

You did not mind it.

You knew I could not have been there
that summer with you,
you discovering
him, the man in you - building,
me being made ready
for the shelter we two would create.

Elevator

~By Ashley Zimmerman

I sat on the left
as my mother fumbled
through pastures and
sheep greeted us with
heads like turnstiles
in the city where my sister
lived for only five months.

With unexpectedly
placed palm trees
and buttered sandwiches
we dragged our heels
through fleets of green
to where she rose each night
and descended each morning.

The exterior’s pink
paint was furiously peeling
like skin from the tops of feet
forgotten in the sun, a mistake
rarely made by these
fair-skinned natives,
but commonly made by me.

We traveled up
the throat of this simple dwelling,
suffering from the cigarette smoke
and the typical tastes of coffee,
to greet my sister with scones
and sleepy eyes
from our trip over the Atlantic.

On my first trip down
I had not considered the others
who chanced to ride in her
tremulous shell
until a friend returned
from a similarly short stay
in that pink apartment building.

Like my sister, she had watched
the cloudy river each morning
and rode down to walk on
its cobbled banks.
She had cracked her skylight
windows to welcome
in the city air.
She had stopped
to dissect her portrait
in the cracked mirror of the same
elevator, numbering each facet
and ordering them back into place.
She had trusted the mechanisms
and I had trusted, both my sister
and my friend, to ascend
and to return.

Soleil

~By Kate Marlow

Rolling over
    I yawned   
    s  t  r  e  t  c  h  i  n  g
        my reach
        brushing off
        the gray of    
            yesterday.

Everything crumpled
    out of place, even
    in d   s   r   a  
           i   a   r   y
            from a long night.

Arousing the others--
    maple pine forsythia--
        I smiled
            on the new day
                before me.

Pear Tree

~ By Ashley Zimmerman

“I, overcome with love for everything so quickly fading,”*

Plant a tree because it seems necessary.

I grew up with a pear tree in my backyard

And every seven years I would feast of the fruit

Of patience, thinking it so wonderful

That I could rely on a tree for an afternoon snack.

I don’t remember when it happened,

Maybe during a particularly bad winter in the ‘90s,

But the tree cracked

And we had to relieve it

Of its damaged limbs,

Leaving only a small foothold in the ground.

It hasn’t produced a piece of fruit since

But I wait in hopes that it will someday.

* From Philip Schultz's “The Adventures of 78 Charles Street.”

Space

~By Kate Marlow

The air was luscious
My feet pounding the pavement
A taste of freedom.