Darling Coffee
The periodic pleasure
of small happenings
is upon us—
behind the stalls
at the farmer’s market
snow glinting in heaps,
a cardinal its chest
puffed out, bloodshod
above the piles of awnings,
passion’s proclivities;
you picking up a sweet potato
turning to me ‘This too?’—
query of tenderness
under the blown red wing.
Remember the brazen world?
Let’s find a room
with a window onto elms
strung with sunlight,
a cafe with polished cups,
darling coffee they call it,
may our bed be stoked
with fresh cut rosemary
and glinting thyme,
all herbs in due season
tucked under wild sheets:
fit for the conjugation of joy.
by Meena Alexander.
Everything That Happens Can Be Called Aging
I have more love than ever.
Our kids have kids soon to have kids.
I need them. I need everyone
to come over to the house,
sleep on the floor, on the couches
in the front room. I need noise,
too many people in too small a space,
I need dancing, the spilling of drinks,
the loud pronouncements
over music, the verbal sparring,
the broken dishes, the wealth.
I need it all flying apart.
My friends to slam against me,
to hold me, to say they love me.
I need mornings to ask for favors
and forgiveness. I need to give,
have all my emotions rattled,
my family to be greedy,
to keep coming, to keep asking
and taking. I need no resolution,
just the constant turmoil of living.
Give me the bottom of the river,
all the unadorned, unfinished,
unpraised moments, one good turn
on the luxuriant wheel.
by Carl Adamshick.
Anything That Looks Like an Opening
Unforgivable, how good the windows are
at pitching their sale to the birds:
More air here. Come in.
We cut apart our shirts and made ropes
to hang over the glass: warn the birds.
Then we cut apart more of our clothes
to make face masks so we could have even more
distance from each other. Now
everything I wear has a future in protecting
the world from the world. Did you know
you can paint a collar gold
if you want your head to become a flower?
You can redden your cuffs if you want to show
where your hands will be when they have nothing
to hold. Inside, some of us are clouds
and some of us are windows who need a bird
to fly through. That’s how lonely we are.
by Jennifer Oakes.