Sixfold Poetry Summer 2014

Sixfold Poetry Summer 2014

  by Sixfold

  Copyright 2014 Sixfold and The Authors

  www.sixfold.org

  Sixfold is a completely writer-voted journal. The writers who upload their manuscripts vote to select the prize-winning manuscripts and the short stories and poetry published in each issue. All participating writers’ equally weighted votes act as the editor, instead of the usual editorial decision-making organization of one or a few judges, editors, or select editorial board.

  Published quarterly in January, April, July, and October, each issue is free to read online and downloadable as PDF and e-book. Paperback book available at production cost including shipping.

  License Notes

  Copyright 2014 Sixfold and The Authors. This issue may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided both Sixfold and the Author of any excerpt of this issue is acknowledged. Thank you for your support.

  Sixfold

  Garrett Doherty, Publisher

  [email protected]

  www.sixfold.org

  (203) 491-0242

  Sixfold Poetry Summer 2014

  Anne Rankin-Kotchek | Letter to the World from a Dying Woman & other poems

  Sara Graybeal | Ghetto City & other poems

  Tee Iseminger | Construction & other poems

  Lisa Beth Fulgham | After They Sold the Cows... & other poems

  Mary Mills | The Practical Knowledge of Women & other poems

  Monika Cassel | Waldschatten, Muttersprache & other poems

  Michael Fleming | To a Fighter & other poems

  Daniel Stewart | January & other poems

  John Glowney | Cigarettes & other poems

  Hannah Callahan | The Ptarmigan Suite & other poems

  Lee Kisling | How the Music Came to My Father & other poems

  Jose A. Alcantara | Finding the God Particle & other poems

  David A. Bart | Veteran’s Park & other poems

  Greg Grummer | War Reportage & other poems

  Rande Mack | rat & other poems

  J. K. Kitchen | Anger Kills Himself & other poems

  Jim Pascual Agustin | The Man Who Wished He Was Lego & other poems

  Jessica M. Lockhart | Scylla of the Alabama & other poems

  James P. Leveque | Three Films of Jean Painlevé & other poems

  Kelsey Charles | Autobiography & other poems

  Therese L. Broderick | Polly & other poems

  Lane Falcon | Touch & other poems

  Ricky Ray | The Bird & other poems

  Phoebe Reeves | Every Petal & other poems

  David Livingstone Fore | Eternity is a very long time... & other poems

  Tim Hawkins | Northern Idyll & other poems

  Abigail F. Taylor | On the Pillow Where You Lie & other poems

  Joey DeSantis | Baby Names & other poems

  Cameron Price | Every Morning & other poems

  David Walker | Sestina for Housesitting & other poems

  Helen R. Peterson | Ablaut & other poems

  Contributor Notes

  Anne Rankin-Kotchek

  Letter to the World from a Dying Woman

  for Ron Garson

  Approaching 44, I just feel it’s over.

  I lie in a kind of permanent autumn:

  my bones talking back,

  shoulders curled in a parenthesis ’round my heart,

  & any remaining veins of hope tangled in despair.

  Don’t ask me how I got here—

  I can’t make you understand

  something you don’t want to know.

  But like the sky I have a story to tell:

  wisdom I might have passed on to a daughter

  if only she had arrived,

  things I would have said to myself

  if only I had listened.

  Now, I see it clearly: there are many ways to die—

  some of them don’t even involve death.

  You might come to know this later.

  Or you can listen to me now,

  before your song is up & while my urgency to speak

  succeeds my tendency to descend.

  The thing is, somewhere to the left of your spine,

  your soul is waiting to tell you

  everything you need to know.

  Stuff like this:

  the best way to deal with regret is to

  do what you want in the first place.

  And, where it is necessary,

  do not give up or give in.

  But also, where it is necessary,

  give up & give in.

  The road less traveled isn’t always on the map,

  but seek it without waver,

  like a dog pursues his home.

  If you wait too long for the green light,

  you’ll spend your life stuck in traffic. Go ahead.

  Mix apples & oranges:

  the world needs more fruit salad.

  At least once a year, check out the way

  pinks collide with orange in the sunrise.

  Remember not to give your heart

  to someone you don’t trust with your head.

  If you grow the little voice inside of you

  (add plenty of music & moonlight), it will

  take you where you need to go.

  Your skin also has a voice, so listen.

  In fact, let your body do the talking.

  Swim in the air & dance in the water.

  Don’t forget to try an ocean on for size:

  no matter who you are it will be a good fit.

  Be sure to bring enough air. Your lungs

  were meant to be filled & emptied, just like your days.

  Tend to a living thing as though you’re being graded on it.

  And get to know the earth on a first-name basis.

  But don’t take the rain personally.

  Life is very, very, very unfair.

  Sex & doughnuts can help,

  but they’re not a permanent cure.

  Most of all, find love

  in the answer, the question, & the pause in between.

  And when you step outside

  the lines drawn by all of your others (even you),

  treat yourself like the bliss-bound, spring-leaning

  creature you were always meant to be.

  Then come back to tell me all about it,

  before my song is up & while my urgency to speak

  succeeds my tendency to descend.

  In the Wake of My Father’s Orbit

  for Marty Rankin

  He was a brilliant star, but

  he was damaged too.

  He gave off an entirely different

  sort of light, and we were transfixed,

  forsaken as the contrails of his angels.

  I see him standing in the corner of our kitchen,

  the distracted mathematician mumbling numbers

  (never realizing that we were growing

  and multiplying in space and time).

  And then the sudden flash of anger, stunning

  in its own way:

  such potential for pain and shadow.

  Everything about it was distorted:

  the way we looked up to him—though

  we had no choice, held under nature’s sway—

  and how it mattered to us so the way he shone,

  how his brilliance glittered off of us

  and splintered us in a thousand ways.

  On Sundays the six of us knelt beside him on the pew,

  our palms pressed together, fingers pointed upwards

  like candles reaching for a flame.

  With every “Amen” came the shame:

  we would always disappoint him. br />
  But his light was a prism

  we could not turn away from,

  even when we knew

  it would grow us crooked,

  break us into dark shards.

  More Than Candy

  Night. Feels later than darkness.

  Way past a child’s bedtime.

  We have no bedtime.

  My younger brother and I climb

  out his bedroom window

  opening into the summer air,

  buoyant as dreams.

  Big plans.

  We fly off the garage roof,

  jumping to the ground and roll.

  Old pros.

  Sometimes others tag along.

  Tonight we’re on our own.

  Two tadpoles.

  Our parents, unaware as always,

  sit inside with Johnny Carson.

  They never laugh.

  It’s the other side of the house.

  More like the other side of the moon.

  We smile, bikes ready

  to carry us anywhere.

  As far as we dare,

  Brian says with his eyes.

  We sail under the stars, shooting

  for 7-11 like it has all the answers.

  Pedaling in our high-tops,

  we wade through fireflies

  with the flurry of superheroes.

  We are the great escapers.

  Inside the store, the choices

  never fail to dazzle.

  We own the aisles, but we know

  it isn’t about the sweets.

  We choose our favorites

  and head back into the dark.

  I turn to my brother

  as he unwraps a Reese’s.

  I love him more than candy.

  The Journey

  for Margaret Elizabeth Regina

  But after a while the road seems to drive you.

  And that’s okay, if you like

  mile markers and weigh stations

  that measure nothing of importance

  the whine of your tires on pavement

  endless potholes and truck stops

  speed bumps and rumble strips

  the white lines and orange cones

  highways that leave you low

  exit ramps that steer you nowhere

  faded billboards and tires blown

  signs to places you’ll never go

  and if you want your steering wheel

  to serve as the compass of your life.

  But you know me.

  If there’s a sky above

  then that’s my path to the sea.

  And I’d rather be

  musing with a mountain,

  wondering what the crows know,

  making plans with the firs and pine,

  knowing I can take my time,

  and not let my travels

  be decreed by the speed limit

  but by how fast—or slow—

  my heart wants to go.

  The Only Prayer

  I can’t do the big prayers:

  don’t know the Rosary,

  won’t crumple my torso over my knees on the floor—

  arms outstretched with audacity.

  You won’t find me facing Mecca, or

  orchestrating the Amidah,

  or waiting for the wafer silently hunched over the pew.

  I have no idea how to bow

  (or to whom)

  and may submit that flailing on the floor in foreign tongues

  or slipping notes in the Wailing Wall

  will almost certainly ensure one’s heavenly requests

  remain unanswered.

  Sometimes, getting up in the morning is

  the only prayer I know,

  the best I can offer

  to whatever deity

  may or may not be

  waiting for me to tumble humbly out of bed.

  Sara Graybeal

  Ghetto City

  My students have created a board game

  Out of cardboard, tape, and staples.

  Ghetto City, they call it.

  A numbered path leads to a 3D hut

  With a restless stick figure in the window.

  The goal: reach jail and bail your brother out

  Before getting shot.

  We play the day John’s brother gets booked

  And the day Kareem’s uncle comes home.

  We play the day of the middle school shooting,

  Two kids with guns, none of my students,

  Nobody hurt. We play as if these things

  Make the game all right, safe still,

  Hypothetical.

  When funders visit, we hide Ghetto City

  Under a red sheet in the back of the class.

  My students cross their arms, discuss the impact

  Of arts enrichment on their lives.

  When we play, I am usually the first to get shot.

  My students love the way that this makes sense,

  And all the ways it doesn’t. When I suggest

  A new game, they are disappointed in me.

  It doesn’t work that way, they say.

  General Store Café

  All day, jazz. At a blue table, Masquerade dancer painted on top

  One hand cradling a jug of wine & a white clown face

  Glittery scarf, arched eyebrows, dotted eyes

  On the walls stained glass, green & gold

  Bounce light every which way, winding

  Wind chimes, shelves painted lilac, housing

  Cloth dolls, home-made post cards, wreaths

  Disheveled over rims of chairs, a bookcase of local books

  That we don’t want to read

  But will pretend to

               When forced

  To, when there is no one else to share our table

  So much jazz: oil paintings of farm animals

  Pig snouts blowing kisses

  Herons psychedelic lime green & pink

  A sack labeled Product of Colombia, 70 Kilos—

               To which twenty-first century soul

               Did this old thing appear artistic?

  Rabbit wind vanes, painted wood critters

  A forest goddess cloaked in hand-stamped robes

  Carly’s Grab ‘Em By the Cowtail mocha

  A plaque stating Love me, love my dog

  & butterflies swinging from the ceiling.

  A woman walks in, eyes wide, lost stare

  Her sweatshirt spelling United We Stand

  Can I get a coffee, she says, trips

  Over the frayed rug, bumps

  Into the boom box, plastered with

  Bumper stickers & rainbow flags

               The radio stutters, shifts from jazz

               To Christmas tunes

  Jingle bells jingle bells, faces fall flat around the café

               What is this CVS music? This gas station music?

  What is this music that turns my mocha bitter?

  That spins the butterflies idly, that nauseates

  The herons in pink-green waves, that reminds me

  I am spending twelve dollars & eighty-six cents

  On my organic fair trade in-season spinach quesadilla

  Music that sounds like my grandmother’s house where she

  Stuffed my stocking, read from the Bible

  I do not visit Grandma now

  She cringes at my unshaved legs

  This music, these fucking lullabies

  That make me want to snap shut my laptop

  Step outside, reach my fingers to the sky &

               Hold the world close; no

  Not the café—

  Hold the world close; recall that

  These are two different things

  I am a citizen of both &

               One is begging
/>
  Eat your spinach quesadilla for the right reasons &

  Switch the station now & then, if only for a second because

               Just jazz can get to be too much.

  Did You Hear That, Just Now?

  Zimmerman not guilty.

  Trayvon Martin dead.

  In South Philadelphia,

  Silent streets: a sleepy fig tree,

  Bony cats stalking their prey.

  Is rising up too much to ask

  On a July night like this one,

  Wearing rage on our bodies

  As we do on our Facebook pages?

  Are we all so weary, so unsurprised

  That a march is unattainable,

  That the fury of our solitary brains,

  Our fingers whipping across the keys

  Are the most we can offer up

  In the name of solidarity?

  If it were the sixties, millions would have marched.

  If it were the nineties, streets would have burned.

  But it is 2013. The numbers ring apocalyptic.

  Sidewalks are bare. Windows so dark

  It seems all souls have departed.

  I am Trayvon Martin

  We are Trayvon Martin

  The cries, once smothered by sirens,

  Forced entries and the clink of handcuffs

  Around the smooth wrists of brothers and sons

  Stand no chance against this silence.

  Boarded windows splinter open.

  Potholes yawn. They will swallow

  These cries by morning.

  These homes, vacated of hope,

  Will soon be yoga studios and

  Montessori schools. And finally,

  The fight—the few voices still

  Murmuring over candlelight

  In buildings slated for demolition

  By winter—will drift to places still

  Worth fighting for. I cannot tell

  Whether or not they will be missed.

  Tee Iseminger

  Construction

  They sold the empty lot next door last month,

  the one with the tree, the tree my daughter

  climbed all of those mercilessly long, stagnant

  summers, made her teenage cradle in, read her

  borrowed books. The tree whose limbs overgrew

  the property line and rubbed against our lives until

  we no longer remembered that it wasn’t our tree, and we,

  or maybe it was only I who came to depend

  on the sympathy of its freckled shade on our breakfast

  table, the table where my husband and I sat suspended

  each morning in forbearance, in our own early fall, these

  seasons of not saying, of not knowing what else we might

  possibly say, and so grateful for the scratching of branches.

  It came down more quietly than any of us expected; one

  day we simply noticed that we had poured our orange juice