Shannon K. Winston: Lilt
Lilt is the name of the woman you want to be—
someone who pumps her feet like a child on a swing set
and laughs and laughs and laughs into the sky.
John Okrent: This Costly Season
I picture Whitman,
wending his way through wounded Union
soldiers—his democratic nostrils, the smell of dead
or dying flesh. And in all the dooryards, the smell of lilacs.
Wendy Cope: The Waste Land
A Phoenician named Phlebas forgot
About birds and his business–the lot,
Which is no surprise,
Since he’d met his demise
And been left in the ocean to rot.
Amy Lowell: Bath
The day is fresh-washed and fair, and there is a smell of tulips and narcissus in the air.
Tony Gloeggler: Cheez-Its
He makes a wounded bird sound
if we have to sit at the bar, wait
for a table, or the waitress brings
his apple juice a bit too slowly
George Drew: Shared Space
My Uncle Frank was a weird bird, everybody who knew him
knew it and kept space between him and themselves,
space he filled by talking to himself as he hustled along Main Street
Sean Sexton: Hillside Equipment Auction Yard Outside Dothan, Alabama
I’m the wretch the song’s about
David Hernandez: Hello I Must Be Going
we can’t play any instruments
the point is to make a sound
any sound in this endless parade
shimmering toward silence.
Sharon Fagan McDermott: On Time Passing
I wander through the rusting bulk
of Carrie Furnace and reach toward the ghosts of
Eastern European men who worked with fire
and molten ore for pennies a day to build the Empire
Doug Anderson: Put Your Hand In My Wound
Jesus out of his tomb and wandering
among the rotting corpses in Ukraine,
dragging his bandages behind him.
Joan E. Bauer: Dear Federico
Tonight, we’re watching Amarcord,
your dream-mix of homage, fable & satire.
The boisterous half-grown schoolboy Titta,
the fiery father, the long-suffering mother.
Edna St. Vincent Millay: Renascence
All I could see from where I stood
Was three long mountains and a wood;
I turned and looked the other way,
And saw three islands in a bay.
Richard Hoffman: Refugee
A man carries his door,
the door of his house,
because when the war is over
he is going home
