Willawaw Journal Winter 2017 Issue 2

The Dead and the Living

‌                 –for Jim Harrison and my mother

Someone found his friend lying on the floor collapsed in the pond
of his body he had no chance of denying death or saying so long
His friend had a hard life even though he laughed a lot

and made use of his time figuring out how guns work
and how to skin animals and live off a bottle in the sun
like an old timer although he knew Sanskrit and sang

mightier than almost anyone even when they stare
maybe with a kind of dread at someone whose face was so alive
with lines they felt afraid of their own absence from living

A friend of mine knew this guy and depression but mostly the bright
alleys his pen made for others to rest in or maybe to wallow in the beauty
of wriggling words going straight at what mattered most

And it felt natural for me to think of my mother who has been told
she’s depressed and maybe she is or isn’t and the dead man really wasn’t either
No I don’t think so even though she says, “It’s chemical you know?”

Only I think it’s because well how else can she tell us the real reason
which I’ve finally figured out when she cries out all times of day “oh” and “oh god”
and even “shit,” it’s only because she knows there is so much inside

that will never get out more than is meant for a single lifetime
how many one can’t tell she is so full her mind bursting
with grief over the fact of her tethered blooming

Jonah Bornstein taught writing in NYC and Oregon, and directed the Ashland Writers Conference. Publications include poems in Prairie Schooner, West Wind Review, One Fare, Jefferson Monthly, and many anthologies, including September 11, 2001: American Writers Respond.  Books include The Art of Waking and Treatise on Emptiness. Bornstein lives in Oregon.

The Robbery

Let’s say there’s been a robbery.
My windows are open; I can smell my neighbor’s meat loaf.
People crowd around a table and it’s not mine.

I sit alone among shredded paper, an empty television stand,
books scattered like pigeon feathers.

Let’s say there’s been a violation, a line crossed over.
My cat roams the living room howling for her brother.
And I don’t know who did it

‌                                                             I can imagine
him breaking open the window – that first vomit of glass –
I can almost smell his leather gloves with the worn-out tips.

But what good does this imagining do me?

Let’s say there’s been a violation. That I was a child who thought
that being tall made you smarter, safer.
That my hands were forced somewhere out of greed and sickness.

Let’s say an event occurred where I didn’t know
the culprit and if I did know him, I would soon forget.

‌                                                             Do I sit
among the ruins for another twenty years
or do I actually begin to put things in order?

Buy a new potted plant? A new bed? Walk into
that house as though yes, I owned it.

‌                                                            Yes
I would put it back together again.

 

Lisa Marie Brodsky is the author of poetry collections “We Nod Our Dark Heads” and “Motherlung” which was awarded an Outstanding Achievement in Poetry from the Wisconsin Library Association. Brodsky is on faculty of AllWriters’ Workplace & Workshop, teaching creative writing as a vehicle for emotional healing.

Linda Cheryl Bryant, a journalist since the 1980s, had been published widely in newspapers and magazines. During the Great Recession, she pursued an MFA in poetry, realizing a long-held dream. Bryant lives in Nashville among honky-tonks, recording studios, and down the street from the world’s largest vinyl record plant. She has published in small journals and received two national fellowships for her writing.

Zsanan (JaneAnne Narrin) is a North Carolina-based artist who works in acrylics, watercolors, and digital processes. As a teacher, she shares her techniques to release expectations and nudge the muse in mixed media artwork. She combines digital painting with her photos to create graphics for a variety of applications. Her work is displayed in private collections.

Diamonds and Serpents

I used to think I was blessed,
But I know now that I am cursed.
People would call me crazy
Especially those wretched souls who live along the swamp
And cry out in the middle of the night
For rice, fried fat, okra, anything–
You can have all your heart desires with diamonds dropping from your mouth.
Foolishly I thought so too.
I made the mistake of speaking to a gentleman on a horse.
He watched diamonds fall on the ground
Didn’t matter that I wasn’t particularly fair.
Beneath that scorching sun, he got off his horse and proposed.
On account of my skin, I knew I wouldn’t get a better offer.
He put his hand under my chin as I said, “yes.”
A rare pink diamond landed softly in his hands.
The wedding was small and coldly private.
Truth is he wanted to keep our marriage a secret.
With my diamonds, he built the largest plantation on the island.
To keep me still, he brings me gifts from all over the world.
My “thank you’s,” just cushion his pocket.
I spend my days hidden in a gilded cage,
My thoughts written down on white muslin.
At night, I listen to my husband and his women–
I pray for my sister’s gift, even for a day.

Tiffany Buck is a former librarian. She lives in the foothills of Appalachia. Her poems have appeared in Rabble Lit, the San Pedro River Review, and Poetry Breakfast.

To Be the House

to be that water
in the ocean
to be that house that
is a tiding to be that
welling of a water worth
and weaving as a jacket kept
and keeping as a sleeve
calling all the angels’ shares

to be that house
and be that tiding
cold and over linens made
to be that cup and be
that colding called
and colding in each shade
of Sunday and the slant light coiling
basement windows back to noon

you are the breath that’s
pocket tucked and lined
for sleep in each the habit’s
hammock sleeping here
the jasper noon and kept

Corinne Dekkers is a first year MFA candidate in the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University. She reads tarot cards and watches the creek in her spare time.

[i wake to my own]

 

[the best wounds]