DivinationThe long body of the Buick
is brown like a doe. The open hood reveals inscrutable innards of iron. Steam rises from the cavity, the open stomach of a deer on a hard November field. Both Buick and doe can carry a man through winter. My father reaches into that space, his back bent with effort as if through haruspex he will solve the mystery of what doesn’t work. I can’t tell him where gears go wrong, but I know what stopped the doe. By Jory Mickelson Jory is the winner of our fourth poetry contest! You can see his poem on display at the downtown co-op December 1st - end of February!
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Night ShiftsHow good the green air felt against my skin when I broke from the foundry’s door, to leave behind the vulcan light we pounded thin for thirteen hours until it turned more delicate than wire, became a tracery of orange against the skin. How the hammer echoed in the ear and followed me into sleep. How loud the body’s metronome. Below the tic of cooled muscle, eyes dim in their sockets, the web of breath remains. The headlamp mind, released from the body’s tether, drifts toward soft-edged trees. How similar the road at waking to the one bound for rest. How the hammer of the heart swings, as if for hours, in hand. By Jory Mickelson Jory's poem is a runner up for our fourth poetry contest. Thank you, Jory, for your submission! Portrait of My Daughter as a WIC Check36 oz breakfast cereal, 11 to 36 oz boxes
Her hair has turned the color of shredded wheat, dry and streaked from chlorine and summer. 1 dozen white eggs, small, medium, or large Her ovaries are tight and green as young rose hips, Her fallopian tubes are pea shoots. She caries her cloth and plastic daughters under her shirt or by their hair. 1 juice, 64 oz plastic bottles Her sweetness, her anger, the blood of fruit inside clear plastic. When she runs her cheeks flush, her hair sticky with sweat. 1 gallon(s) 1% or nonfat milk, any brand Her body is growing lank. Her face thinner, but still the shape of a heart. She drinks from a cup printed with sugar skulls. By Rachel Mehl Rachel's poem is a runner up for our fourth poetry contest. Thank you, Rachel, for your submission! Jungle GymsThey were constructs of iron in 5 dimensions going up to the sky and below to places never known never named before or since. On those wonders of imagination, we learned sociology of space ships yardarms of piracy Tarzan’s principles submarine operation the physics of gravity consequence and plaster arm casts. By Gary Wade Gary's poem is a runner up for our fourth poetry contest. Thank you, Gary, for your submission! Eulogy for Charlie, a TeacherOur minds—peaches he scalded in a water-bath
of generous dialogue, slipped off the fuzzy skin, cut away the sweet flesh of illusion, cracked open the pit with a hammer of caring, exposing the bitter kernel of each person’s truth. We, like Prometheus—were asked to reach into the fire of what we and the world could be, as he challenged our complacent spirits with the ferocity of a meaning-ful life. His absence—a hurricane wind, so immense I’m caught in its center, trying to hang images on the eye’s wall, motionless. By Lynn Geri Lynn's poem is a runner up for our fourth poetry contest. Thank you, Lynn, for your submission! |