Two Poems by Denver Butson

issue64

Found in Willow Springs 86

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drowning ghazal

first line by Vicente Huidobro

I am absent but deep in this absence
asleep but asleep in this absence

glass rattle a tongue remembers rains
how long can one keep in this absence

the waves from far off lisp her name
the brooms of dusk sweep in this absence

rain on the driveway stones is my one morphine
forget counting sheep in this absence

last night I woke in some hotel outside Denver
tried but couldn't weep in this absence

drowning ghazal

first line by Claire Malroux

then to return with your pittance of sky
to bow deeply and bid good riddance to sky

there is a cafe outside the dream station
threads of avenues    ribbons of sky

this is the kind of rain that cities drown in
notice the flooded streets    witness this sky

a can collector woke me this morning
screaming twenty fracs for love    sixpence for sky

in one arrondissement there is rue Denver
a few moments of tree   an instance of sky

Two Lists by Blake Butler

issue64

Found in Willow Springs 86

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Hair Loop

  1. My father used to tell me that he'd gone bald from holding the hair dryer too close to his head.
  2. That the gleaming bulb of his flat scalp skin had been burned free into the light.
  3. For years in the barber's chair I cringed, fearing the same, and often asked to go home sopping.
  4. The several dark brown hairpieces my father wore in rotation, stored in his closet on Styrofoam heads. Their features formed but slightly muted—noses without nostrils; skin without wrinkles; eyes with no pupils, lashes, lids.
  5. The short weird rip of adhesive as he pulled the hair off in the evening and sat in the living room in front of the TV wearing a denim hat my mother'd made.
  6. How self-conscious and incensed he'd become when as a stupid child I'd snatch the hat from his head and squeal in glee.
  7. The average human head has 100,000 follicles, each of which can grow 20 individual hairs over a lifetime, and from which an average 100 hairs are lost each day.
  8. Increasingly, in my frustration, and even without thinking now, I pull my hair out at the front.
  9. The damage becoming more apparent in the wispy frittered fragments of my bangs.
  10. Hair as the body's slow expulsion; as a set of fuses from the brain. .
  11. The strange arrival of the new hair during puberty, which as a somewhat frightened child I immediately extracted one by one until I could no longer keep up.
  12. The single long mutant black hair on my left forearm that continues to grow back no matter how many times I rip it out.
  13. Hair as a pack of multiplicity. As a signifier of demeanor, rank, intention.
  14. In that same closet with his fake heads, my father hid a stack of old porn under a T-shirt, which on the evenings he was not home I would sometimes steal into my room.
  15. The hair those women had or did not have. The soft width of their papered flesh.
  16. From certain issues I snipped certain pages and hid them in a purple folder in my desk.
  17. Some I reinforced with paste onto cardboard to extend longevity, like enormous trading cards. Others I traced on paper in fear their absence would be noticed.
  18. The graphite outline of that blonde-headed woman in the orange bikini top pulling her thong down as if to make sure she was still all there.
  19. The now ridiculous myth of hair growing on one's hands in retribution for dirty acts.
  20. Hair of Samson, Medusa, Rapunzel.
  21. During fetal development, a fine hair known as lanugo grows to cover the entire body as a form of insulation. 
  22. As the lanugo is shed from the skin, it is normal for the developing fetus to consume the hair since it drinks from the amniotic fluid and urinates it back into its environment. 
  23. Numerous times throughout my teenage years I allowed my hairdo to be determined by the ladies at Great Clips for $9.99.
  24. The old women's fingers in my output.
  25. Their breath against my neck.
  26. The smell of disinfectant from the combs soaking in blue fluid. The bristled tickle of the brush.
  27. Perspiration. Spritz and rinse. Snip of metal scissors. Rare spot of blood.
  28. Afterward standing in my bathroom mirror sometimes crying and pleading for god.
  29. Yet returning to the same place the next time my locks had grown out, as if with my hair they'd taken my memory, or pride.
  30. All those pictures of me ruined and blustered, preserved in yearbooks, hung in Mother's hall.
  31. Relax— You're at Great Clips. 
  32. Hair as a trophy, token, as in a bounty hunter's bag of scalps.
  33. Hair as a mold that grows across the face and in the nose and ears.
  34. As in the way hair can be anticipated, I often sense the residual presence of whoever rented my home before me.
  35. Their fingerprints and oils and output in the places where I now sleep and eat and shower.
  36. What surfaces we've shared without intention. What cells we've taken in our mouths.
  37. Clogs of long hair yanked up from my apartment's bathroom sink and the shower drain.
  38. Strands of dead cells snaking their way down, encased, drawn out with a coat hanger to stink and glisten in the light.
  39. The inevitable layer of loose hair on almost any floor. A constant carpet. Fodder for the roaches, feeding protein.
  40.  35 meters of hair fiber is produced every day on the average adult scalp. 
  41. Hairpin, hair turn, hair rigger, hairnet, hair tonic, hair lock, hair care, hair shirt, hairbrush, hair trap, hair band, hair remover, hat hair, hair on fire, hair of the dog, win by a hair, lose by a hair, let your hair down, splitting hairs, hair up your ass, angel hair.
  42. Combing. Braiding. Shaving. Teasing. Crimping. Regeneration. Rinse and repeat.
  43. The crudded crowd of prior selves stored and expelled, still hanging on, styled and combed and cleaned, worn in dreadlocks, braids, and perms.
  44. The sudden whitening of one's hair after significant trauma.
  45. The bits of other's shedding unknowingly consumed— hair in the has browns, coleslaw, orange juice.
  46. The hair found in the mouth while kissing.
  47. The single strand of her hair I kept for years after she was gone.
  48. The slow recession of my scalp as I molt like my father, my head flesh opening unto the light.
  49. The way hair evaporates immediately when touched with flame.
  50. And, burnt, such sharp stench blooming.

 

Word Count

  1. My mother in the kitchen asking me to count backwards from 100 by 7's with the Alzheimer's book clutched in her hand.
  2. A pot of water boiling for broth soup, as this week I weigh more than I have in years.
  3. My father gone for the evening to spend what might be the last year he is able to go to Deer Camp. 
  4. Deer Camp an annual vacation my father has taken with his friends and brothers for as long as I can remember, where they do not hunt so much as watch racecars and drink beer.
  5. The first time I saw porn, on accident, when I came with Dad to camp for a day.
  6. Penthouse, I think, which I age 5 found on a sofa half sunk into mud.
  7. Seconds of women spreading, their weird hair and eyes.
  8. More than tits I remember how the men laughed as my father took it from my hands.
  9. The metal in the fire.
  10. The aging framework of the cabin, the camping beds: decaying cells.
  11. The dead among that group of men increasing by the year.
  12. My father some days getting lost now going places he's been so many times.
  13.  My mother calling camp to make sure his brothers help with the medication.
  14. Behind the cabin, a minor flood hold of old collecting rain, known among my father's friends as Lake Hoonie, where he's said he'd like to be sent floating, Viking-style, when he dies.
  15. Ashes on water. 
  16. How each time I see him shirtless his skin seems different, stretching, reupholstered.
  17. Home from camp, when I ask what they did, my father's long gone-out stare, his looking off.
  18. My reiteration of the question. His eyes again. "We ate."
  19. The bowl of cereal under Saran Wrap in the refrigerator.
  20. How I feel scared writing this down.
  21. My father sitting in front of the turned-off television in the afternoons, hours that in other years he would have spent building with his hands.
  22. The hands inside his hands.
  23. His going to bed at 8 p.m., at7, at 6:30.
  24. My mother up alone evenings in the twin chairs they brought matching, writing her journals in longhand.
  25. The lists and lists of days she can not hide.
  26. How some days my father seems not there inside him, or sometimes transfixed in a loop. The hours spent cleaning the pool. Sleeping in from of the TV. Walking from room to room and standing.
  27. The number of words I have left speak or write before I die.
  28. An invisible word count fixed to my head at birth, as to my father's, my mother's— a count one won't know until it's completed counting down.
  29. That count shifting downward line by line and list by list.
  30. What words will remain labored inside us when the tally has been depleted.
  31. I feel reckless.
  32. Trying to imagine the percentage of language I've used on ordering fast food or on customer service hotlines. Talking shit to god alone inside my car.
  33. The words I could have made instead, or said another way.
  34. Words I could have given to my mother, to coax my father into me.
  35. Other things that might be counted down to death: footsteps, tacos, hours sleeping, orgasms, dental visits, inches of cut hair.
  36. Or worse: things we ruined, how many cheated, the pounds of consumed unhuman flesh, hours a loved one spent suffering— each by years or hours counting down.
  37. How many times in my life I've said the equivalent of: I'm tired or I'm hungry or Please stop. 
  38. We wouldn't need that many words if we could just learn to say the right ones at the right times.
  39. Another count to consider: the number of words you'll take in during your lifetime.
  40. This list killing us both with every line.
  41. Miscrosoftcountsthisasonewordbutyoucan'tcheatdeathsoeasily.
  42. The average adult takes between 12 and 20 breaths for each minute.
  43. 125 words per minute per person outputted in ordinary conversation; while at the same time, encased in bone and flesh, the brain spools on burning closer to 500 wpm.
  44. As well, on average, in a minute, per person: 15 blinks, 42 mL urine output, 600 thoughts; 50 million body cells dying and being replaced.
  45. Counting down and counting down.
  46. 162 babies born; 1.3 rapes; 16,000 Google searches; 8,500 McDonald's hamburgers sold.
  47. The average housefly lives 10 to 25 days.
  48. The average human lives much longer but in the end it probably feels the same.
  49. My father in the living room trying to turn on the TV.
  50. My father.

Two Poems by Kim Addonizo

issue63

Found in Willow Springs 86

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Long-Distance

Your wooden leg stood beside the bed
in its tennis shoe & sock, trailing its fasteners,

its amputated man leaning invisibly against the wall.
You pulled back the sheet so I could touch

your stump, the small hole in your left foot.
I touched everything. I was curious. I was eighteen

& ignorant. You told me the little
you thought I could handle.

Thirty years gone since then
to wives, meth, government checks...

Last year they took a kidney
& a few inches more of your right thigh.

Your two sons were fed to a different war
& spit back out. Now

they induct the nervous teenagers of Phoenix
into the intricacies of parallel parking,

the number of feet to trail the car ahead.
You & I are a late-night phone call.

You stretch out beside your drained pool,
shirtless in the heat

with a bottle of Jack, I cradle my California wine.
When your new prosthesis topples

to the cement by the lounge chair
I try to hear

what the fallen man says
as you set him upright.

 

Forms of Love

I love you but I'm married.
I love you but I wish you had more hair.
I love you more.
I love you more like a friend.
I love your friends more than you.
I love how when we go into a mall and classical muzak is playing,
you can always name the composer.
I love you, but one or both of us is/are fictional.
I love you but "I" am an unstable signifier.
I love you saying, "I understand the semiotics of that," when I said,
"I had a little personal business to take care of."
I love you as long as you love me back.
I love you in spite of the restraining order.
I love you from the coma you put me in.
I love you more than I've ever loved anyone, except for this one guy.
I love you when you're not drunk and stupid.
I love how you get me.
I love your pain, it's so competitive.
I love how emotionally unavailable you are.
I love you like I'm a strange backyard and you're running from the cops,
looking for a place to stash your gun.
I love your hair.
I love you but I'm just not that into you.
I love you secretly.
I love how you make me feel like I'm a monastery in the desert.
I love how you defined grace as the little turn the blood in the syringe
takes when you're shooting heroin, after you pull back the plunger
slightly to make sure you've hit the vein.
I love your mother, she's the opposite of mine.
I love you and feel a powerful spiritual connection to you, even though
we've never met.
I love your tacos! I love your stick deodorant!
I love it when you tie me up with ropes using the knots you learned in
Boy Scouts, and when you do the stoned Dennis Hopper rap
from Apocalypse Now!
I love your extravagant double takes!
I love your mother, even though I'm nearly her age!
I love everything about you except your hair.
If it weren't for that I know I could really, really love you.

“Uniforms” by Robert Lopez

issue63

Found in Willow Springs 63

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an excerpt from Kamby Bolongo Mean River

Uniforms are always good and I have always enjoyed wearing uniforms whenever I am allowed to wear one. I got to wear a baseball uniform one summer because they let me join the team. I think I wanted to join the football team but I was told it was too rough and which meant I might get hurt and die. I never saw anyone get hurt and die playing football. I saw players get hurt and carted off the field but none of them ever died I don’t think.

Why uniforms are goo dis this way you don’t have to worry about what to wear yourself. For instance I like it now that I have a uniform and don’t have to worry about what to wear every day. One less thing to worry about is something I’ve heard all kinds of people say.

The uniform I wear now is comfortable but not as handsome as my old baseball uniform. My old baseball uniform was made from a fabric they call polyester. Polyester is the best fabric to make uniforms out of.

The uniform I wear now is made from cotton which is not nearly as good to make uniforms out of as polyester is.

Polyester is one of the great words and I never have any trouble with it.

The only trouble with this uniform is I sweat too much in it. I sweat right through the uniform and they have to bring me a fresh one. I always sweat too much and when I sweat too much I chafe and when I chafe the insides of my thighs are rubbed raw.

I tell them it’s hard for me to walk around like this which is why they give me powder sometimes. They don’t give me powder like Mother did because Mother knew how much I chafed too.

It is hard to say which is better uniforms or answering machines.

No one looks as handsome in a uniform as a military policeman or security guard. Baseball players don’t even compare to MPs or security guards.

The people who bring me powder are the same ones who bring the uniforms. I can’t tell how many uniforms they have for me. Every three or four days they take my uniform and give me a different one. This different uniform looks exactly like the other one so they’re not as different as you’d think. They are the same uniform only different versions.

Maybe there’s a better way to say this but here is the trouble with words.

I think they’re washing one while I’m wearing the other is what I want to say. I think it takes three or four days for them to wash uniforms here.

Only once or twice did they take a uniform from me and not give me a replacement. They left me naked for two and three days each time.

There was nothing to distract myself from myself those days and they knew it.

I asked them what am I supposed to do now and they said it’s one less thing to worry about.

If I had a list of things to worry about the phone ringing and how to conduct myself over it would be at the top. After that it’s the air conditioning and then the uniforms.

They tell me I look nice in my uniform whenever they bring me a new one and who can argue with them.

I’m sure MPs and security guards have different versions of the same uniform too. I’m sure they don’t have only one uniform to wear every day on patrol. They are probably washing one while wearing the other like everyone else does.

I don’t think I myself have ever worked as an MP or security guard. I don’t think I myself have ever worked. I think I may have wanted to once but was not allowed for one reason or another.

Why I will ask people to identify themselves is because sometimes I have callers ask for people who aren’t here. I don’t know why callers think those people are here when I am the only one who is ever here. I am here all the time and there is never anyone here with me. As far as I know I am the only one who has ever been here.

There was no here before me is another way of saying it.

Here is the sort of place that should have a military policeman or security guard standing outside the door. They should patrol up and down for intruders.

Here is a room with four walls and one window. The window does not look out into the real world like most windows. There are no trees or birds out the window and there’s no grass or sunlight either. Worst of all there is no river out the window.

This window is like a mirror and this is how they watch me. They are on the other side of the window keeping an eye on me for my own good.

I cannot see them watching me which is probably another good thing.

Otherwise I would spend my whole day watching them watch me.

I have a comfortable bed here with three pillows. I use one pillow for my head another for between my legs and the last one to wrap my arms around.

Intruders can be anyone so the MPs or security guards would have to be vigilant. Doctors in their white coats and clipboards are intruders the same as a burglar would be. Even Charlie and Mother would look like intruders to an MP or security guard. This is why you need MPs and security guards patrolling up and down outside your door at all times. They protect you from every sort of intruder.

Should the phone ring it might be an intruder on the other end.

Calling someone on the phone is an intrusion though most callers don’t think of it this way. Most callers go right into the hello how are you and never once apologize for intruding. This is why whenever I make a call I say right off that I am sorry for intruding and then I beg forgiveness. Only then will I say hello how are you I’m fine I have a headache I didn’t sleep last night.

I only apologize for intruding when a person answers the phone themselves as opposed to the machine doing it for the. I would apologize to the machine but the machine is never sorry for the intrusion. The machine welcomes all intruders equally. The machine looks forward to all intruders and does not pass judgment on any of them. This is another reason machines are the best things going.

The machine would never have you beg forgiveness either.

Should the phone ring it might be Charlie on the other end.

More than likely though it will not be Charlie on the other end because Charlie does not like to intrude on people.

Sometimes uniforms come with hats or helmets but just as often not. Hats and helmets aren’t necessary for any uniform to look good but they can help. If there were MPs or security guards patrolling outside my door they wouldn’t themselves need hats or helmets.

I didn’t like wearing my baseball hat but they said I couldn’t play without it. They said it was part of being on the team. I didn’t like the way my hat made my hair look and I wouldn’t have liked the way it looked whether I was on a team or not. I had curly hair when I played baseball but now I am bald like a baby’s bottom like an eagle.

I remember when Charlie and I wanted to go to a private school because of the uniforms. They also had a boxing team which is another reason Charlie wanted to go there. I didn’t care so much about the boxing team because why bother but Charlie did and that was fine with me. We saw these uniforms around the neighborhood and found out which private school had them but when we asked Mother about it she said we all had to make sacrifices so the answer was no.

Why we also wanted to go to this private school was because of the security guards. This private school had security guards at both entrances and Charlie and I would test them whenever we could. We’d climb over the fence and walk into the school like we were regular students but the guards always stopped us and chased us away.

Because we didn’t have uniforms made it easy for them to spot us.

Instead we would go to our public school in our regular clothes which didn’t look anything like uniforms. What we’d wear is blue jeans and T-shirts but I always had to wear Charlie’s old blue jeans and T-shirts because he was older and Mother couldn’t afford my own jeans and T-shirts. She didn’t have to tell me about sacrifices this time because I wasn’t as dumb as I looked back then.

That was something Mother would say to both me and Charlie all the time. Whenever one of us would do something right around the house like clean up the kitchen or make our beds Mother would thank us by saying you’re not as dumb as you look.

After school we’d come home and do our homework at the kitchen table. I always needed help with my homework and it was math especially. I had trouble with fractions and square roots which were two more words I didn’t know what they had to do with each other.

I would be in class and the teacher would ask us what the square root of some number was and while all the students were scribbling the answers I would think about the word square for a few minutes and how that square was perfect shape like a circle which is why Mother would make pill circles and squares and I was always happy to make them disappear for her.

So whenever the teach walked by my desk and saw my blank paper she would punish me with her stick. Then she’d ask me why I didn’t do the problem and I said I didn’t know. She would say how can you not know why you didn’t do the problem and I would answer by saying I don’t know that either. This is when she’d punish me with her stick again and send me home.

Charlie needed help with his homework too but Mother wasn’t home to help us and by the time she did get home she was tired of making sacrifices.

I don’t like disappointing callers so sometimes I pretend to be the preson they are trying to call. This is what separates me from most callers. I figure it’s the least I can do for the people who call me.

This is the kind of thing Charlie himself would do too. When we were kids we’d pretend to be all kinds of people. For two whole summers Charlie pretended to be a boxer and I pretended to be his trainer. Every morning we’d wake up while it was still dark out and go jogging. I think Mother was still asleep in her room when we did this otherwise she probably wouldn’t have allowed it. It Mother knew we were doing this she’d probably think I might get hurt and die from it.

Charlie would do the jogging and I’d hold on to the rope we tied around him and follow behind on a skateboard. It was Charlie was a horse and I was buggy which is something we never pretended to be. Charlie didn’t like animals growing up which meant I wasn’t allowed to like them either. But we saw some boxer and trainer do this horse and buggy maneuver in a movie one time so we thought we could do it too. We’d jog all the way to the ice cream truck on the other side of of town and back. What we wouldn’t do is buy a Popsicle or ice cream cone because we were training. Sometimes Mother would give us money for the ice cream truck but most times she would say we all had to make sacrifices when we asked her about money for the ice cream truck.

Then we’d go into the basement after the jog and I’d hold a laundry bag up so he could pummel it to death. Then I’d make him a breakfast drink of raw eggs and milk and he’d drink it right up and only once or twice did he throw up from it. Charlie didn’t mind throwing up because boxers thew up all the time.

I can’t remember if Charlie ever actually boxed another boxer inside a ring. I’m sure he would’ve wanted to otherwise what did we do all that training for. This is something Charlie probably regrets to this very day.

It probably haunts him that he never became a real boxer and this is probably why Charlie is the way he is.

This is why I feel sorry for Charlie sometimes.

We watched the boxing matches Friday nights and we’d watch boxing movies when there was no matches on. We were boxing crazy for two whole summers and each of us brought our own trunks and mouthpieces and we made Charlies bedroom into a ring. We made ropes out of the fox and raccoon stoles from Mother’s closet and we used her old music box for a bell. We stapled all those stoles together and took the bell out of the box and Mother gave us hell when she found out about it. She gave more hell to Charlie because he was older and responsible and I remember felling bad for Charlie that his own mother wanted to kill him like that.

Mother never wanted to kill me herself I don’t think.

Sometimes Mother gave us hell by making us read the dictionary. She would have us sit down at the kitchen table and read the dictionary together. We would pass the dictionary back and forth and have to memorize certain words and later she would come home and test us.

She would have us do all the Hs in one sitting for instance.

Another thing Charlie and I would do together is riddles. I would tell Charlie that if he wanted to be a boxer he’d have to think on his feet and riddles help with this. I told him all boxers should do riddles and he was no exception. So I would say to Charlie that if a plane crashed on the border of Alaska and Canada where do you bury the survivors. Then I would tell him what walks on four in the morning two in the afternoon and three int he evening.

Charlie would answer what does that have to do with boxing and he was right of course.

This is why I like to pretend when callers call for people who aren’t me. There is no right way to do this but it helps if you can make yourself believe you are the actual person you are pretending to be.

No matter who it is I am pretending to be I always sound like a military policeman or security guard. This would be fine expect sometimes I am trying not to sound like an MP or security guard. Sometimes I’ve wanted to sound like a boxing trainer but other times I want to sound like anyone. The way you try to sound like anyone is to sound like you are falling asleep while speaking. The way to do this is to speak slowly and mumble and the longer you’re at it you speak even more slowly and mumble more. This is the same way drunk people talk and the same as people who have been given too may pills.

One time I asked a caller if I sounded like an MP or security guard but the caller hung up before answering. I took this to mean yes I did sound like an MP or security guard.

What I never do is try to sound like a doctor in a white coat and clipboard. No one likes doctors in person and even less over the phone.

 

Two War Poems by Hugh Martin

issue67

Found in Willow Springs 67

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Friday Night, FOB Cobra

 

1.

Smith, shirtless, curls forty-pond dumbbells,

veins burst, worms over biceps.

The curls are part of his plan for home:

a sex life.

 

2.

On burn detail, Ritchey stirs shit with a metal rod,

asks Carter--standing back with a smoke--Doesn't it make you

hungry?

 

3.

Jones' brother sent him a twelve-pack

of Ultra Sensitive LifeStyle condoms. The box reads:

almost like wearing nothing at all. He cuts it out,

tapes it to the front of his flak vest.

 

4.

Sergent Thomson has been in so many fights,

there is no cartilage left in his nose.

In line for the phone, he shows us:

bending it like an ear with one finger,

flat against his cheek.

 

5.

Kellerman's wife divorced him over e-mail.

 

6.

When asked why his hands are so hairy,

Kenson says, with a cup of coffee and a ball of wet Copenhagen

bulging beneath his lip, I ain't a fuckin' girl.

He sips four pots a day, changes the grinds

once a week. The coffee tastes of steam and heat.

 

7.

In Tower Ten, Stevens discusses mutual funds,

interest rates. He says a young guy like me

might spend all his money on a bike, a truck, a house.

He's taking his wife

for a cruise, investing the rest,

and that's what you do with money.

 

8.

On marriage, Perry says, It ain't like that.

 

You think you just walk in the door,

and she hands you a beer,

gives you a blowjob.

 

It ain't like that, he says.

 

Just wait,

it ain't like that.

 

9.

Ski boils water in a canteen cup,

adds ramen, slices of expired Slim Jims.

He discusses the meaty juices, how the heat

sucks them out.

This meal is sacred.

 

10.

Sprinkling hot sauce over cold, boiled potatos

Demson talks about reading the paper, the names

of the dead.

All of us know he's slept with ninty-seven

women. After we finish our food, he tells us

about one.

 

 

Observation Post

 

Hanley spits strings of saliva-laced dip into cracks of gravel.

Hours ago, a dud dropped on the south side of the FOB,

sent up a breath of dust.

 

Marwan, the interpreter, drives to the entrance gate,

picks up his two boys. Their summer job: filling sandbags for dinars.

One mile down the road, at the intersection,

a three round burst, a precise

incision through the windshield. Neck, mouth, nose.

 

In a Humvee, we drive the captain and find the two boys

crouched together, hands over their head on the floor,

their father wet on their bodies.

 

Captian takes a photo, and we lean

toward the backseat window,  as he points to red scrapes of Marwan,

bedside the seatbelt buckle.

Later, he'll show everyone, magnifying the camera's screen,

That's skull right there, that's skull, as if needing others to agree.

 

We watch crow carry the body bag

through Sadiyah's streets.

Peshmerga arrived in jeeps with RPGs, Kalashnikovs;

they drag suspects to the police station,

where they'll take turns with the rifle-butting.

 

I'm cleaning my fingernails with a Gerber; Hanley whispers,

A shooting star. When I look, he says, Go fuck yourself. Before dawn,

we see movement in the retreating darkness. Through the binos: a donkey

mounts another in a field.

 

When our relief shows up, we say if they're bored,

there's two donkeys fucking at three o'clock;

a dud hit before midnight; and Marwan is dead.

Three Poems by Laurie Lamon

issue67

Found in Willow Springs 67

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This Poem Doesn’t Care That It Isn’t a Sonnet

 

This poem doesn't care about the movie Avatar,

dosen't care about IPods or Notebooks or

the divorce of reality from reality; it isn't

thinking of animal shelters, three million plus

deaths per year; this poem isn't thinking

of oil or children or ice melting with climate

that is here or not here; this poem has nothing

to do with the bodies of women which have

ceased to move on cots or sidewalks; this poem

doesn't know the legal age of marriage for

girls in Ethiopia, Sir Lanka, Saudi Arabia etc.;

it has stopped looking for the name of the one

killed in a bus by a bomb, in a car by a sniper,

on the path by a tripwire, in a house, in a crib.

This poem isn't waiting for pain's reprieve,

for grief to pack up its tools for another heart's

pale. It is hungry for milk, for the messages

of pillow and sheet; it wants the drowse

of the  egg in the open nest, a plain thing, in-

effable brim of shade, yellow apples ripening.

 

 

Pain Thinks of Black

 

This is damage the body

remembers--

 

a snowy landscape

Pain swept with one hand.

 

 

Pain Thinks of Still Life

 

without landscape black beneath

white without wind without interuption

Pain thinks of still life without charcoal

& seeds without burnish & soil Pain thinks

of iris lapis lazuli light without leaf

without breath Pain thinks of still life

without eternity meeting the air

Two Robert Hedin Poems Translated by Dag Straumsvåg

issue63

Found in Willow Springs 63

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June

They stand before the priest and will never be happier or any more heroic than they are at this moment. The bride spots a fly crawling across the nose of the crucified Jesus and sneezes before she can answer. A mother stares at her child and can't remember the father. Across the street, a man stands on a stool and washes his store window. A motorcycle cruises by. The priest looks up. There's a light drizzle. Good weather for fishing, he thinks. He likes to fish, likes to stay out all day, even if its windy and pouring rain, even if the lake is empty. Out there, fishing, everything is of interest. Minnows, and old boot, the bottom.

 

Karl

The police telephoned again today. "We're sorry, Karl, but he got away this time, too. You better lock your doors and stay inside until further notice." This is the fifth time the officer has called, and it's always the same message for a man named Karl. Each time I want to tell him he's got the wrong number, that I'm not Karl, I don't know any Karl, but I end up holding my tongue. It feels so safe to be updated this way, to know the police care and look after you. But then, of course, there's always Karl. I don't trust him. There's something elusive about the man. Actually, no one has heard from him since this all began. It's as if he has completely vanished from the face of the earth.

“S. Sgt. Metz” by Dorianne Laux

issue63

Found in Willow Springs 63

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Metz is alive for now, standing in line

at the airport Starbucks in his camo gear

and buzz cut, his beautiful new

camel-colored suede boots. His hands

are thick-veined. The good blood

still flows through, given an extra surge

when he slurps his latte, a fleck of foam

caught on his bottom lip.

 

I can see into the channel of his right ear,

a narrow darkness spiraling deep inside his head

toward the place of dreaming and fractions,

ponds of quiet thought.

 

In the sixties my brother left for Vietnam,

a war no one understood, and I hated him for it.

When my boyfriend was drafted I made a vow

to write him a letter every day, and then broke it.

I was a girl torn between love and the idea of love.

I burned the letters in a metal trash bin

behind the broken fence. It was the summer of love

and I wore nothing under my cotton vest,

my Mexican skirt.

 

I see Metz later, outside baggage claim,

hunched over a cigarette, mumbling

into his cell phone. He's more real to me now

than my brother was to me then, his big eyes

darting from car to car as they pass.

I watch him whisper into his hands.

 

I don't believe in anything anymore:

god, country, money, or love.

All that matters to me now

is his life, the body so perfectly made,

mysterious in its workings, its oiled

and moving parts, the whole of him

standing up and raising one arm

to hail a bus, his legs pulling him forward,

all muscle and sinew and living gristle,

the countless bones in his foot tapped in his boot,,

stepping off the red curb.

“Self-Portrait as Sycamore in Copper & Pearl” by Kathy Fagan

issue66

Found in Willow Springs 66

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I may look smooth

shouldered just stepping

from the soak, my planes

flushed pink, angles

ocher, my tresses

oxidizing in reverse,

but take a long hard

look. Take a biopsy.

Interrogate my juices

under your scope &

you'll survive as I have

the sylvan hallelujah

moment, bullion bars

fanning through the showy

oaks & maples & the sweet

sweet gums. When blue is

dominate all over

the earth, atmosphere is king

the air so hammers-on-

strings so perfect it steals the

voices right off

the birds. In the double-dutch

sunlight of American mid-October,

therefore, I may look like a

pearl, but try stopping one,

their cheeks packed with

gold, silver, & blood.

Observe their divots

& dents. Likewise, I

am flawed, with flaking

crusts, molds, blighted bits,

& not a few limbs dead

as a gelding's part.

I know the need to admire

one's cream blushes & metallic

finishes, to take a copper

leaf for your collection

& break the ricochet

silence en plein air with your

sighs. But understand, rainlight

is the truest pearl,

my ugly friend,

with whom I have neither

inhibitions nor differences.

“Improbable Wings” by Katrina Roberts

issue66

Found in Willow Springs 66

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After months

the raccoon family finds

a loose hem of chicken wire.

Grey brindled steel

wool, sticky viscera.

Already

somewhere within

my daughter

eggs that may become

grandchildren

tick.

 

One handy trick

is to use salt.

Everything is personal.

How clean and soft beneith

my stroking hand, how quiet

and still the two left

are--as if practicing

for death. Once upon a time,

 

one at a time

each of these urchins

curled within me. Three

times over I've been a woman

with two hearts.

Wings wands stars tulle

ribbons capes sequins. All flash

All flash and approximation. Tricky

hands; thick skin.

And windows

 

cannot necessarily keep out

what the wind throws

against them.

Two laps

round the vineyards

make for sleepy kids. I hold

close as before

I wake they will have

flown.

 

Hierarchies of all--clouds,

cats, dreams, vintages,

hues. O, miracle of feathers!

Barred Rock silver

and jet. Ticked orange. White

Leghorns--tufts caught

where they shouldn't be

in high holes.

 

One trick is to use tonic.

One trick is to use sand. O fleet

of foot. O, fine as dew evaporating.

Pale brown shells,

pink.

Q: "How big is the egg I was?"

A: "Vast as wind you were

named for and equally

invisible." O, utterly reliable

osmosis. My own

 

words come back

to baffle me. I've been loved thin

as a plush rabbit, threadbare

even--shined to one more

myself than ever

like heavy gold icons

rubbed through

to wisps

by the reverential.

I like to think

 

our one downy girl

whose carcass we have

not found might come scrabbling

today from underbrush

skirting Caldwell Creek

when she hears

in the pail

grain

singing.