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BY DOROTHEA LASKY

When my dad first started to die

All my mom could remember

Was the time he kicked her out

After they first started dating

So that he could go play golf

It is the sort of thing we all remember

When we feel death upon us

I remember he died twice

And once in my dream

I just had to see him all nursed and swaddled as if he were sleeping

But he wasn’t sleeping

I stood in the white light of the nursing home bathroom

With the sun spilling everywhere on me

And tried to talk to him, but never, he’d never listen

People don’t always listen to you when they are dead

But that’s not sad

I get tired

And I don’t listen to one 🤬 thing you are saying

But that is because most of the time you bore me

And when I am finally asleep it is really nice just to dream

I have seen a lot of things in this life

But one thing I saw most readily

Was that despite his eternal heartbreak

And girlish silliness

Mike’s face was kind of sweet, a sweet wind

He is going to think it is weird that I put him in this poem

But I don’t think it is weird that I put him in this poem

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By Jessica Hagedorn

there are some people i know

whose beauty

is a crime.

who make you so crazy

you don't know

whether to throw yourself

at them

or kill them.

which makes

for permanent madness.

which could be

bad for you.

you better be on the lookout

for such circumstances.

stay away

from the night.

they most likely lurk

in corners of the room

where they think

they being inconspicuous

but they so beautiful

an aura

gives them away.

stay away

from the day.

they most likely

be walking

down the street

when you least

expect it

trying to look

ordinary

but they so fine

they break your heart

by making you dream

of other possibilities.

stay away

from crazy music.

they most likely

be creating it.

cuz when you're that beautiful

you can't help

putting it out there.

everyone knows

how dangerous

that can get.

stay away

from magic shows.

especially those

involving words.

words are very

tricky things.

everyone knows

words

the most common

instruments of

illusion.

they most likely

be saying them,

breathing poems

so rhythmic

you can't help

but dance.

and once

you start dancing

to words

you might never

stop.

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Turtle Came to See Me       BY MARGARITA ENGLE   The first story I ever write is a bright crayon picture of a dancing tree, the branches tossed by island wind.I draw myself standing beside the tree,with a colorful parrot soaring above me,and a magical turtle clasped in my hand,and two yellow wings fluttering on the proud shoulders of my ruffled Cuban rumba dancer's fancy dress.In my California kindergarten class,the teacher scolds me: REAL TREES DON'T LOOK LIKE THAT.It's the moment when I first begin to learn that teacher scan be wrong.They have never seen the dancing plants of Cuba.  

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Turtle Came to See Me       BY MARGARITA ENGLE   The first story I ever write is a bright crayon picture of a dancing tree, the branches tossed by island wind.I draw myself standing beside the tree,with a colorful parrot soaring above me,and a magical turtle clasped in my hand,and two yellow wings fluttering on the proud shoulders of my ruffled Cuban rumba dancer's fancy dress.In my California kindergarten class,the teacher scolds me: REAL TREES DON'T LOOK LIKE THAT.It's the moment when I first begin to learn that teacher scan be wrong.They have never seen the dancing plants of Cuba.  

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Ations

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Alone

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This Is Just To Say

I have eaten
the plums
that were in
the icebox

and which
you were probably
saving
for breakfast

Forgive me
they were delicious
so sweet
and so cold

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Nobody

I'm nodbody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then, there's a pair of us
-don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know.

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!