Valerie Bacharach: Passover
I lay a Haggadah by a chair,
unoccupied.
Unearth my Seder plate,
place upon it shank bone, egg, parsley,
bitter herbs. My bitter tears.
Sandy Solomon: Jewish Immigrant, Michigan, 1885
He knows what his father would say—Throw it back—
so he flings it away, watches it twirl as it falls,
like a star arcing over the stirring grasses.
Christine Rhein: Our Corner Acre, April Afternoon
Side by side, we dig in the withered flowerbed,
the sudden warmth, and once again you say, See
how much the light has shifted. I nod my head
at another changing season, our aching knees.
Elizabeth Romero: The Sisters Who Raised Me
Now I thank the black butterflies, the Sisters who raised me.
Sister Jane, who taught me how to garden and identify weeds.
Sister Marie Therese, kind and soft. Sister May Bride
Who defied authority to comfort me when I was disgraced.
William Butler Yeats: Among School Children
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?
Megan Merchant / Luke Johnson: Origin Story (An Epistolary Dialogue)
From our window, grosbeaks
and buntings tangle into flight. The hours count
earlier now, because of the way they are lit.
Kim Stafford: Top Hit
But comrades, if we kill him, someone will make
a martyr song and it will become the anthem sung
by thousands in the streets
Alison Luterman: At the Jeweler’s Tent
I hold a string of amethysts up to my collarbone.
There are wrinkles on my neck now,
rings of crinkled flesh like tree-markings,
one for each lived year
F.R. Foksal: A Slice of Surreality
a cozy little square
where local drunks would
congregate to damn
the vicissitudes
of their tipsy
fate
Rachel Hadas: Ides of March MMXX
But who
could hear me through my mask?
Don’t ask.
Love
wears a glove.
Nina Kossman: Three Poems About a Head (3)
Yet you keep saying:
“I’ve lost my head for the love of my son,
I cannot find it anywhere!”
Well, then live without it.
Your son is lost to you and it is not your fault
Mary Jane White: “Dear Friends” by Marina Tsvetaeva:
Dear friends, who’ve passed these nights with us!
Miles, and miles, and miles, and dry bread . . .
Tony Gloeggler: Autistic Joy
He freezes, tries not to look at me and places
his hand over his mouth as this boundless
sound spills out, his eyes bubbly blue champagne,
while his body shakes and shivers in happiness.
Martha Collins: Blessing
there, and throughout our earth, let us grieve
for the graves we robbed, and then
let us bless the graves of the dead that remain
