THE DANCE OF TWO COAT HANGERS
A Poem by Michael H. Brownstein
Something soft, perhaps indelible.
Make sure the bathtub water is cold to the touch.,
but not unbearable–lean into your body–
find your quiet space.
But first, the door must be locked.
No one can disturb you.
The hangers, elongated, stretch to the thighs,
its metal hard, yur skin pliant,
a mixing of fear and a mixing of anxiety.
this is how some of the things you care about
become things you can no longer bear,
how everything can change in a second
and fever on forever.
If the metal does not find an entrance,
do not force it.
When you bend to far towards your knees,
when you lose touch with yourself,
if the metal scrapes into blood,
if a cloud becomes solid and a fog sweat,
listen carefully to your eyes.
Tears are often lifesavers.
Sobs are often the only way to get out of the water.
Do not ever allow yourself to drown.
rest within melody, thick breath, a shadow of whisper–
I performed this dance once, and succeeded.
A best friend, no.
Before you leave this evening,
be aware–and she finally paused–
every dance you will do from then on will be less fragile.
A Poem by Michael Estabrook
. . one of the last things Dad did
before he died was to buy an Erector Set
to teach his sons how to build things . . .
There they are in the airport at the rental car counter
father and son, carbon copies of one another
tall, loud, brash, laughing, in control
the world is their clam (or is it oyster).
Hard to avoid looking at them looming loudly over everything
and of course I’m finding them annoying, obnoxious even.
But they are not really doing anything wrong
not being rude or disrespectful
simply being father and son two peas in a pod
same voice, same smile, same stance
finishing each other sentences right out there for all to see
which is probably the problem for me considering
that my dad died
before we could even have a beer together.
A Poem by Stefanie Bennett
The dawn is shaded, laced
With assorted inks.
My love, a kind that
Blends well, tells
Of the mighty
High-drunk planets that
A Poem by R Soos
there is a call for strength
with simple commands of reason
kill or be killed commands
from men who take afternoon
naps in air conditioned
offices while the shrapnel
allows the blood on our
legs to sweetly clot and coagulate
so we may kill again tomorrow