More from P.F.S. Post (2008)

THEN & NOW

I couldn't be more or less than I was then,
could I? But like a person, thought I could.

Standing beside the picnic table—
beside myself— mimicked hands, hello, and mouth.

Said yessir, pleasesir, thankyou— I watched
the boats go south. I waved goodbye, dutifully. I bore

the empty wine bottle to the basket, shoo-ing flies.
But all day he'd been leaning—mast and pole—

he had us cleaning the underside of the belly,
all along the bulwark and the bow. I had tools then,

didn't I? Steel wool, toothbrush, tar. Once
I tarred a roof, rewired a house. I was small;

I could fit into crevices. But only like a person.
I was a child: rest and enervation. I could as easily

lie down now in rows of soybeans, as against
the plaid flannel of your shirt, smelling of gasoline.

© Mary Walker Graham 2008

From Ocho #11

A Pit, A Broken Jaw, A Fever

When I say pit, I’m thinking of a peach’s. As in James and the Giant, as in: the night has many things for a girl to imagine. The way the flesh of the peach can never be extricated, but clings— the fingers follow the juice. The tongue proceeds along the groove. Dark peach: become a night cavern— an ocean’s inside us— a balloon for traveling over. When I said galleons of strong arms without heads, I meant natives, ancient. I meant it takes me a long time to get past the hands of men; I can barely get to their elbows. How a twin bed can become an anchor. How a balloon floating up the stairwell can become a person. Across the sea of the hallway then, I floated. I hung to the fluorescent fixtures in the bathroom, I saw a decapitated head on the toilet. I’ll do anything to keep from going in there. I only find the magazines under the mattress, the Vaseline in the headboard cabinet. A thought so hot you can’t touch it. A pit. A broken jaw. A fever. 

© Mary Walker Graham 2007

From P.F.S. Post

[THE STORY’S IN THE BROKEN SHELLS]

The story's in the broken shells, the fissures 
of the rocks. The water left those cracks. 
And it was the sea that rocked; that sang
its story of self or selves. I said,
You see me? And it did:
the sea saw.
I'm lying. It was a river
that ran nearest us, and all that night
I dreamt of alkali, dissolve.
That's why I say the sea, I like the salt.

© Mary Walker Graham 2008

Adam Fieled (Plymouth Meeting, Pennsylvania, USA): "Luggage"

Luggage lugged in by refugees from wealthy
families lay beside the bed we occupied, to
do our dance. I saw it, in the middle of the action—
black leather, initials embossed in gold— tried
not to notice that it was sentient. It berated you,
for the duration of our tryst, delineating ways this
was a betrayal, to sleep with someone of inferior caste
stripe, with steep consequences. When a severed
head broke briefly out of a suitcase, it reminded
you, red-tongued, the debt you owed could never
be paid back, the grisliness you visited upon your
clan could never be rectified. All the severed head
looked to me like was roses with thorny stems, tied
in a knot— clairvoyantly, you saw the real deal. The sleeping roll

predicted your condition as mendicant when the sex
was over, the word passed. The abomination between
your legs could only be alleviated by the anti-Vaseline
which sat leeringly on top of the luggage pile, lubed
from yellow to fluorescent blue. The luggage, to me,
was just prejudice from a sector I chose not to understand.
All I knew is that our bodies were meant to co-mingle.
That was enough. Off in the distance, trumpets blared
to begin a holy war. Red seas were parted. A king perused
the catalogue they’d given him, jeweled scepter scoping
out highlights. I was a pawn. He knew— if you own the guns
& the money, everything else comes, too. You, then, fell
asleep. I was entranced by the early sunlight. I thought
of states of grace, you dreamed of Red Death. More luggage.

© Adam Fieled 2024-2025

More from Ocho #11

DRINKING TOGETHER, LI PO AND I ADMIRE WANG'S GARDEN

We go back and forth like this:
raising our gin soaked chins
to a translucent daytime moon,
toasting the indecent goldenrod,
the sweet sting of morning,
then, falling deep into an unbelievable 10 am,
memorizing the hibiscus.

Last night, a dozen friends joked
as you stripped clean and rode the rope
swing into the river. Afterwards, the wine wet,
the grass low and dying, we vowed to cherish
the balding crocus in sickness and health.

This morning we watch the birds
return one by one to Wang's roof,
our backs against the same oak,
our tumblers now empty.
I am drifting in and out of consciousness,
but you are still awake, writing something down,
transfixed by willow-blossom, the call of the moon,
willow-blossom, moon, blossom, moon.

© Chris Goodrich 2007

From Ocho #11

UPON HEARING THAT SHE AND THE MAN WITH WHOM SHE CHEATED ARE GETTING MARRIED

after Mary Oliver

Somewhere behind me
the staccato of young men,
their laughter, a fitting truth,
something I wish I had
moments ago when the news
covered my body like sudden
rain. Beside me, an umbrella
I've carried since morning.
I hope to God I don't forget it
when it's time again to leave.
I've ruined more evenings that way,
shoes soaked, body shaking.
I don't know what kind of animal
love is. I do know how to pray
on bent knees for someone
else's failure. From the ledge
of a lonely and startled dream,
I put my hands together and begin
the way anyone would: Dear God

© Chris Goodrich 2007

From No Tell Motel

CONSTELLATIONS OF GIRLS IN RED

Eight o’clock and we open
our skirts, our rumpled lace.
Black gloved in the wings,

passing cigarettes and flirting
with the pianist. Night
folds me like a doll into a dress,

lusting for copper, chocolate,
whatever I can bite down
on. I am especially attuned

to wrists, the rehearsal
within the rehearsal.
Floorboard creaks and fire hazards.

The soloist offers me
a jug of wine, a catbird.
Can do a trick with flying

that puts the aerialist to
shame. Mechanics, she says,
all pulleys and wires.

Her music box plays something
that sounds like Wagner.
My hair tangles in her paper fan.

There’s a crumpled dollar
in my pocket, three gallons
of salt water in the larder.

© Kristy Bowen 2007

More from Dusie

ROPE DANCE

Morning is a burned thing, Louise.
Spoiled like a shuttered house.

Paper everywhere— under the beds,
in the dresser, floating
the pale skin of soup.

You make a cage of your fingers
to keep out light. Chicken bones
to keep out the dead. Grey
where it’s all wearing at the ends.

Your braids still tied in a V
when the dark comes to you like a cat.
A long hallway. A girl in pink
sateen against a backdrop of stars.

Make one turn, then another.
When you shut all the latches,
shut your eyes. A little gin, Louise.

© Kristy Bowen 2006

From Dusie

TRIO

the postulates, the premises, the blankets, and the pastries
the lie of the matter
was a use
completed / what you 
have were two guys
the trappings of having
even in the cold evening
a sort of nostalgia but
the dream, the curriculum
quit falling
spars and plangent, paltry
accounts withstanding
there’s a buck to be
with you, I would prefer
drinks and fights
come out one way

© Patrick Durgin 2006