Katrina Kaye
My body is tight in
the stillness of the a.m.
I long to touch toes,
to have purpose in my reach.
I can feel your imprint
in the bed beside me
and I know it is probably
the craze of mourning but
I swear I heard you in the
next room.
I do not open my eyes.
I refuse to look for you
and allow the knowledge of
your absence.
I prefer this gentle
hallucination. The shift
of muscles in
early morning to bind me
inside the comfort of yesterday.
Liza Wolff-Francis
We all have so many pictures
of ourselves these days, our own
photography of us, on our phones,
on our tablets, our own portraits
taken for granted and in them,
I am a woman changed from who I was.
My hair, a graying color of bark, of limb
of Cottonwood tree, each of my eyes,
a well closing slowly as if the years bring
a squint to the world that determines
the end of water. My neck still smooth
like satin, but with the slight stretch of elastic.
What of it tells a story? It is not as obvious
as that of a giraffe however, but holds
years of breath and swallow, talk and scream.
All this body does, my arms, my back,
my toes. These shoulders pinned forward
in a lazy Friday slump, waiting
to stretch into more formal moments.
There is no easy way to eloquently say
something so trite as: it is hard to grow old
and still we must travel onward.
Emily Bjustrom
Exposed in cruel white light
The hours crash into each other
A bully’s restless hands
Tighten into apologies
The hours crash into me,
My best wishes, thoughts and prayers
Tighten into apologies
I threw myself onto this stage.
Best wishes thoughts and prayers
For the magnet in the door frame- it’ll save our lives someday
I threw myself into this
130 papercuts-for-eyes
It’ll save my life someday.
Gentle hands in soft white light
130 papercuts-for-eyes
Begging me to still the careening clock.
Liza Wolff-Francis
there is only my shadow
on an open empty road.
Central Avenue is deserted,
as if we built the world
for ourselves, then weren’t
able to live in it.
Our world, a dead tree cut
into circles, chopped like
pieces of hotdog or carrot rounds.
A roadrunner crosses
the rough cracked asphalt,
a silent yellow fire hydrant
in a green yard.
All that is left is a ghostbike
to memorialize us, all the beads,
all the trinkets that hang from it.
Even inside our house,
the meditation pillow
tries to be the rug. My child
disappears into a box,
his coat hanger book report
hangs alone, waits
to go back to school someday
in some uncertain future.
Liza Wolff-Francis
To those of us who write poems, create art,
our task is to lead the thirsty to the lagoon
where the water is just cool enough to test out.
First, with a dip of the toe, then cupping
our hands around it to make a small
puddle in our palms, bring puddle to lips,
between cheeks. We cannot help them
swallow, drink, or digest, but we can point out
the deepest parts and the shallow areas
where algae grows. We can show them
how to soak their bodies in an ecosystem
they didn’t know existed. We can wear a path
in the grasslands between their home and this oasis,
where a quench is mastered before it even registers
in the mind. Our task is to show them
when the hawks dive down, to alert them
to the preying wait of the crocodile. Our task
is to make them want more, so they depend on it
and are conscious of that at their very core,
beyond even understanding thirst.
Emily Bjustrom
After Joy Harjo
Remember the sky you were born under-
The light and how it shadowed
Your mother’s face
How she howled and screeched-
The two of you were Human then
Remember your feet
How they carried you
Up mountains and trees
You clung to them
Remember the breeze
How it kissed you
And blessed you with its touch
You knew then what animal you were
Remember.
Emily Bjustrom
At Dawn I could be anywhere:
on the edge of my desk,
talking about
what it means to be a Mountain.
I’ve sat the Dawn on Mountains and Beaches.
Alone in a New Light,
I too am Aflame,
burning paper Bridges.
Between people
bridges connect as much as they separate.
When you make a promise you should keep it.
I am nothing without my word.
The Dawn is a cold fire,
the Dawn is a Promise,
unshakable in its certainty.
This moment
like everyone before it
sparks and catches.
Saturday's Sirens 