Water

Your first bath —

a midwife cleans you up.

You don't have fun.

Then come

the sprinkles of holy water in church,

the tepid water of the nursery,

the ardor of rain water,

the predatoriness of ocean water,

the ice water after you make love,

swallow fire or juggle clubs.

You drink that water in one gulp.

Motes of dust stuck to furniture,

your eyes are red,

but the tears dried up.

Left here alone for weeks on end

with waterlogged images

to ponder in thick gray clouds,

you play hide-and-seek

with memories of the March sky

in patches of meat and mustard,

with a carpet of bold spring flowers,

with a blue outline of mountains.

The fated assault of the time,

dark shadows around the eyes,

the hair unwashed and tattered,

promises written in water

form a puddle of bitter tears.

Your life is water under the bridge.

The last bath.

© Helen Kanevsky, 2018

Bridge over the South Yuba River ~ Nevada City, California
Photo by Kelly M. Grow, Calif. Dept. of Water Resources
from Wikimedia Commons 

Song of the Wind and the Night

The wind and the night

The wind and the night and warped mirrors

The wind and the night

And abortion on the stairs

The wind and the night and hearts

That can no longer love

The wind and the night and nervous fingers

All we can say of desire and time

All we can say disinherits

And remembers

Song of rain

Song of false moons

Song of emptiness and terror

Song of the wind stirring lashes

Song of the wind and the night and dark lovers

All we can say of the sea and the sky

And stars that burn like thirst

All we can say of gardens and lost pleasures

All we can say distorts and destructs

Song of the wind and the night and lights

From lonely windows

Song of the wind slashing wrists

Song of stone and crumbling faces

Song of the wind and the night and hearts

That can no longer love

© Phillip Marlin, 2018

"Windy Night"
scratchboard by Reene
fromWikimedia Commons

How to Hide

for J.P.

Get out of bed and find the good

scissors. The red ones.

Go out to the porch.

Take down all of the wind-

chimes. Dismember them.

Go back inside. Open

the closets. Bring out

all the jackets and shoes.

Tie up every lace and string

until there are only perfect

bows. Put it all away

and pry open the pendulum

clock. Remove the weights.

They'll make good bookends. 

Go to the window. Let down

the blinds and then snip off 

the extra cord. Do this in every room.

Consider buying darker curtains,

not because you no longer love

light, but because you never know

what will cast a swinging shadow.

             Ellie White, 2018

(First published by Melancholy Hyperbole, 2014)

The Addams Family home
Photo by Karl Kuntz
Source: The Addams Family
Otterbein University Theater and Dance
from Wikimedia Commons

Momma Ain't Happy

Momma ain't happy,

ain't nobody happy ‘less momma happy,

and momma ain't happy ‘less her people happy.

That toddler won't stop fittin'.

That girl just feelin' bad all the time, the doctor don't know.

And that “I-ain’t-nothin’-special-ain’t-gonna-go-to-any-good- college-like-my-friends” teenager!

Good Lord,

that baby gotta grow up be ok don’t get its own way,

that girl gotta get off the sofa, get out and live in the big world;

that almost-man need to know know know 

that come college acceptance day, he is special, 

no matter what those letters say.

And this momma gotta sleep at 4 am, letting her "I-don't-know- I -can't-do" go, 

and her babies gonna be your babies, she your baby, and you gonna heal us all up.

God, I got some ideas on the potty training, 

put up your stuff after playing, 

no cussing saying; 

no guarantee, but I got some ideas.

But the miracle-working, 

self-controlling, body-healing, spirit-loving, 

I don't know know know.

So you gotta do do do for me and my people, 

cause God you know, 

ain't nobody happy less momma happy, 

and momma ain't happy ‘less her people, your people, happy. 

Heal us all up, God, 

heal us all up.

© Rie Harris, 2018

Allie Mae Burroughs
Photo by Walker Evans, 1936