Bourgeon

Ocean

I’ve got insomnia

again. I lay awake

for hours, listening

to the fan whirl

as my thoughts swim

round and round to you.

You’re six hours

behind so when I can’t

sleep we text, the quiet

pinging of your incoming

message the whale song

I listen for. We tread

carefully but each message

has an undercurrent. We wade

deeper into these waters, aware

of the rip tide threatening below.

I split my life between two

oceans, split my body between

two pairs of hands – floating

toward the current, my heart

underwater, the hands

capable of saving

or drowning me.

Shelter

His voice is a storm

I’ve learned to weather.

He lives in a state of tornado

watches and hurricane warnings.

The sun hidden by storm

clouds for so long my skin

has grown pale and translucent.

A ghost-girl growing cold,

my blue blood pumping slowly.

I zip up my raincoat, my parka,

my all-weather jacket. I brace

myself for the torrent

of words and rage he’ll throw

at me. The anger raining down,

stinging my skin, invisible

cuts that will never quite heal

but will sing with pain every

time lightning strikes.

I’ve started seeking shelter elsewhere,

finding warmth and words from another

mouth. His hands never curl into thunder-

fists, his tongue never spins

an uncontrolled storm. I shed

my layers, find the sun in his skin.

Lay content in his clear skies.

Courtney LeBlanc is the author of the chapbooks All in the Family (Bottlecap Press) and The Violence Within (forthcoming, Flutter Press) and is an MFA candidate at Queens University of Charlotte. Her poetry is published or forthcoming in Public Pool, Rising Phoenix Review, The Legendary, Germ Magazine, Glass, Brain Mill Press, and others. She loves nail polish, wine, and tattoos. Read her blog at www.wordperv.com, follow her on twitter: @wordperv, or find her on facebook: www.facebook.com/poetry.CourtneyLeBlanc.

Image by Warrenlead69 (Own work) [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC BY-SA 4.0-3.0-2.5-2.0-1.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0-3.0-2.5-2.0-1.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Caught in the gusting wind,

a swallowtail flutters ahead.

The lights are red

for eight lanes in each direction,

leaving a vast emptiness

at the heart of the intersection,

except for a few left-turning SUVs,

and the butterfly,

buffeted by monsoon winds

from feeding on golden bells

in the median

to this oddly desolate space,

wings beating ineffectually.

Soon, the light will change

and I will drive forward

with the rest, complicit

in an ephemeral death.

Carol Poster is the author of three chapbooks of poetry, most recently Returning to Dust (Finishing Line Press 2017), and verse translations from Latin, Classical Greek, and French.  She has also published three books of commercial nonfiction and currently lives in Tucson, Arizona where she works as a freelance writer and photographer. Her books can be found at: https://www.amazon.com/Carol-Poster/e/B001JRUYTA

Image by B137 (Own work) [CC BY-SA 4.0 (https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0)], via Wikimedia Commons

Grandgirl, you are in my bed now, and in all of it.

You are horizontal and your soccer feet are planted

like oaks on the far side. Your head wants me,

wants to root itself like our over-sized pet pig

whose snout found its way in and out of all

hitherto assumed confines. Unable to sleep

because over-accustomed, I know, to sleeping alone,

I get up and half-circle my larger than king-size bed,

only to discover your immovable legs. So I learn

that seven is old enough to be stretched across all

my space and erase me from the chronic familiar.

Next day, over our strawberry smoothies at the Mall,

you watch me withdraw into reverie. Grandma,

you ask, what are you thinking? Bringing me back

to you. I tell you about our bodies in bed. This night

when it is dark and we’ve finished our chocolate and game,

you will climb in beside me again and read aloud

while I become child and drift to the edge of dreams.

You will turn out the light, then cross the distance

between us and place yourself gently under my arm.

We will sleep. Will you, grandchild, till death do us

hardly part, remind me how our bodies need each other’s?

Maryhelen Snyder (Mel) has been writing poetry and prose for over 75 of her 85 years of experiencing the joy and complexity of being alive. She was named the 2016 Poet of the Year by Passager which also published her most recent book, Never the Loss of Wings. Among the poets she carries in her heart is Emily Dickinson who could express the inexpressible in lines such as this one: “A perfect — paralyzing Bliss —//Contented as Despair —”

Norman Rockwell Thanksgiving

My mother framed the Rockwell painting.

That image of matriarch in white apron

setting down white platter

with turkey large enough to feed

all the smiling faces at the table.

Everyone’s eyes gleam with affection

anticipating a meal as delectable as manna.

Every mouth is happy to heap praise

as generously as they spoon mashed potatoes.

No one longs to be anywhere else

with anyone else.

“It’s the way it’s supposed to be,”

my mother often said with red nose

and wet handkerchief

as year after year

her dining room bore no resemblance

to Norman Rockwell’s painting,

particularly the pleased patriarch

standing behind his wife.

The picture hangs on my wall, too,

as I sit at an undressed table

to eat cold cereal with a book

written by a family therapist

happy to explain

why idealized images

damage self-esteem.

Dry Needling

If you stick a needle

in a hyper-irritable spot,

taut muscles will relax,

my therapist says.

I laugh at his silly plan.

Better to tease a tiger

than poke the pain.

My therapist insists.

Find the trigger. Stick

a needle in the spot.

Push till you feel

your grief twist

and twitch.

Disrupt the spasm

pinching the nerve

tighter and tighter.

“Dry Needling” appears in Itzhak Perlman’s Broken String, winner of the 2016 Helen Kay Chapbook Prize from Evening Street Press.

Jacqueline Jules is the author of three chapbooks, Field Trip to the Museum (Finishing Line Press), Stronger Than Cleopatra (ELJ Publications), and Itzhak Perlman’s Broken String (Winner, Helen Kay Chapbook Prize 2016). Her work has appeared in over 100 publications including Burgeon, Gargoyle, Beltway Poetry, Innisfree Poetry Journal, Little Patuxent Review, and The Broadkill Review. Visit her online at www.jacquelinejules.com where you will see that she is also the author of 40 books for young readers including the Zapato Power series and Never Say a Mean Word Again.

Photo by Joe Mabel [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html) or CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/)], via Wikimedia Commons