Flag folded, receipt penultimate, bridges slumping, leaves rotten, brown edges curling inward, race under the trusses, down, down ahead of the ice crystals, coagulating skyward in cobalt, excess sterile cold, fingers coiled in monographs of the mid-Atlantic tributaries, the seasonal whims of native ragweeds beseeching the shore, bottles exit with lips agog, fomenting the latest hallucination.
Peach clouds and streaked chrome, all things always tumbling up.
Gregory McGreevy lives and writes poetry in Baltimore, Maryland. His work has previously been featured in West Trade Review, Snarl, Bourgeon Online, and The Northern Virginia Review, among others.
Image: Acroterion, CC BY-SA 3.0 <https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0>, via Wikimedia Commons
Tyler Vaughn Hayes is a poet and essayist in the midst of his MFA at Western Kentucky University and an internship with Amherst’s The Common. His words have been published in The Ponder Review, Thimble Magazine, and many others.
Image: Clouds with azure blue sky – panoramio by Sue Allen under a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 license.
Yesterday I watched branches Being severed from an old, majestic tree in my neighbor’s yard Its roots screaming across A small, almost well-manicured lawn.
What did that tree say to the surrounding bushes? Wanting them to understand that imperfections do not define a tree (still) standing tall?
That body…my body Patterns of speech only understood when someone is listening, uncoordinated movements as arms and legs try desperately to stay healthy.
I imagined the tree wrestling as it welcomed missing limbs – parts that once touched the sky… confident in its depths of passion.
At 75, I think have grown old, Yet, not unlike that tree, I yearn for renewed life; enriched by my differences, unapologetic for what I can no longer do.
I am determined to flourish – Strong in my desire to stand tall Safe as I rest in the arms of the ones I love.
Laureen Summers has been writing poetry since the 1970s. Her chapbook, Contender of Chaos, was published by Finishing Line Press in 2020. A woman with cerebral palsy, she grew up in New York and Puerto Rico. In the 1970s, following a move to Washington, DC, she joined “Mass Transit,” a poetry group in Washington, DC. She is currently a member of “Writing a Village,” a writing workshop in Takoma Park, MD. In addition to writing poetry, she is a weaver of wall hangings and works as Project Director of Entry Point!, a program for undergraduates and graduates with disabilities majoring in STEM fields, sponsored by the American Association for the Advancement of Science in Washington, DC. Laureen is married to Earl Shoop, whom she met at “Mass Transit.” They live in Silver Spring, MD and have one daughter and two grandchildren.
Image: “Twisted Tree” by Alan McGregor under the Creative Commons Attribution 2.0 license.
I am a slave to the time. Four 5’s, break. Two 10’s, break. One 20, break. Everytime the timer ticks, I spread my legs and bend my hips and pose on command. I am a figure. An illusion of mass. I exist only on paper. I am a slave to perception. I am the subject of objection. They try to capture my Black stature on canvases through mediums of clay, paint, pencil and acrylic but I am more than just my legs and limbs. I am a slave to distortion. No 2D images of me could ever fully capture my soul, aura or energy.
I’ve seen white art students scribble me into a monkey. I would stare at my bulging eyes and protruding lips and wide nostrils looking for facial recognition. Looking for resemblance. Wondering if their caricature of me is due to their lack of skill, lack of exposure to diversity or if the veil hanging over their faces is to blame.
I’ve seen Black art students draw me perfectly. Maybe it’s easier to draw an image that mimics what you already see in the mirror daily. I’ve seen my collarbone drawn so realistically that they could print a mini 3D version of me. Maybe she should get hired by HR instead of me. My African figure and features shrunk down to a couple of inches might be easier to recreate if they didn’t take up so much of my frame.
One more 20 minute pose. I sit with my body folded in half and my face pressed into my legs, in the center of the room. I remind myself that I am just a figure. I am not the painter or artist. I should not feel personally responsible for how I am repurposed through someone else’s imagination. I am only hired to exist in a space. I cannot control the narrative or the story an artist chooses to portray of me. I still pride myself on my self image, even though I am a slave to distortion. I try to keep still and maintain my composure, knowing that everyone else’s perception of me will be wrong. I sit naked and open but I have never been exposed.
Love Language
Our words Hung low In the air.
I was dizzy.
Love at first intonation kept my mind burning, stomach churning, passions stirring.
I followed your voice And found my body was steering Down roads I had never before been. Your words had me twisting And turning, But they never lead me to a dead end. We were two balls of energy, Whose minds had been yearning For an intellectual journey.
With your words You kissed me. I allowed your stories To caress me. With your point-of-view You slowly undressed me.
Entering our own dimension of time, I let your tongue dance Up and down my spine. I ignored all of the caution signs, As we sped through flashing Yellow lights. I never thought that I would ever Find myself this open. Fully clothed But we were both Naked.
Watermelon in July
He often finds himself dwelling On the past and reckoning on the future Simultaneously; All the while ignoring the present fruits of his labor. Everything always looks so bittersweet. He never realizes how ripe and juicy His melons are until he stops To cut them open. His watermelons are the sweetest in July, His cantaloupes are spiritual And just like his growth, his honey dew is Non-tangible but can still be counted. Even on his hardest days, His melons are still adding up.
Curry
My mother was a culinary artist. A local chef to the kids Who lived on my street. She decorated our kitchen table With curry goat Curry chicken Rice and peas Split pea soup Stew oxtail Saltfish and provision Smoked herring. My brother and I ate the finest West Indian dishes, Laced with turmeric, curry and saffron; Sprinkled with habanero and Adobo. My mother was a master multitasker. In between curry dashes and salt and pepper shakes She juggled dreams, a career and two children. My mother never had time to teach me How to make food. She only had time and patience to cook. My West Indian-American Fusion dishes Are first-generation practice runs. I never got the recipe book. Still, I practice my culture daily. I substitute saltfish for canned tuna To make fish cakes. I steep hibiscus flowers to make sorrel. My curry stained countertop doubles as a cutting board For ginger root and carrots. I wine around the kitchen on my two bare feet While my taste buds sail away to a culture overseas. You can find traces of my practice runs On my curry-stained jeans, Curry-stained nails, Curry stained countertops And my curry-stained refrigerator door. The hue of my soul and culture Is too bright To ever bleach out.
Amuche is an active local writer and teacher in the Washington, D.C. metropolitan area. She studied Electronic Media and Film and Spanish at Towson University and plans to attend graduate school for Creative Writing this Fall. Amuche loves to share her words and poetry on local stages. In 2021, she was a featured poet at Busboys and Poets virtual open mic night. Her writing seeks to inspire people from all different walks of life.
With the swirl of a wrist and the twitch of an untamed brow Rock rose out of ocean And light met mountains in the sky Shapes clung together in infant creation Birthing chestnut trees and hearty ginkgoes Ferns mosses and rose bushes Finches horned owls and spotted newts The world was the body’s work The hand’s The eye’s But when the eye gazed on good work It could not gaze on itself Never would Where birth cuts the body cannot mend An outstretched hand not part of the world just because it cups a white rose One in vision but two to touch Always creating beyond the self As if to say This world Once mine I give To you.
A shrine on an Ikea dresser
a shrine on an Ikea dresser urges me to stay only yesterday it was not quite perfect only yesterday I dug through still-packed boxes to assemble photos from 2005 a jewelry box, a keychain, a sticky note nudging them left and right forward and backward spacing one at the perfect midpoint of the others calculating the angles between dividing by the number of years since she died and sighing at last when the equation balanced only yesterday did I look at my altar of curiosities my curated constellation stroke the glass over her glossy face and feel that I could rest here
Cody is a DC-based, Iowa-raised researcher, writer, and artist.
