Gibson Fay-LeBlanc

Aubade in 21st Century America

Last night, walking for chocolate-studded

ice cream, we talked about gratitude—

slippery son-of-a-gun—and the mansion—

unwalled—you and I hold in common.

I woke to a text checking if

the four of us are far enough

from a man who shot three machine guns

at many people in multiple towns.

I wrote funs at first—imagine that:

all these white men, desperate, desperate

for eyes ears hands, breathing inside

a role as prophet, avenger, god

instead reload and fire fun over

corner stores and crowds of strangers.

We are far and grateful; we listen into

the grates in us that wind moves through.

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Gibson Fay-LeBlanc’s first collection of poems, Death of a Ventriloquist, won the Vassar Miller Prize, and his second, Deke Dangle Dive, was published by CavanKerry in 2021. His poems have appeared in the New Republic, Tin House, Narrative Magazine, and Orion, and he currently serves as Executive Director of the Maine Writers & Publishers Alliance.

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Allison deFreese

Signs

To Sarika after Bashō and Bly

You ignite air

when signing,

when palmar bumps palm,

when the thumb

skips pebbles over the index

in the dry silence

where words round

or fold then splay.

Your hands are origami.

Paper boats and cranes float

off the fingers,

take flight over water.

The temple bells have stopped

ringing

but the sound keeps coming

out of the flowers.

---

Allison A. deFreese grew up on a pig farm. She raised ducks and chickens and had over thirty cats. She learned to impersonate birds and kittens, which brought mother cats running from their secret summer nests so she could find their kitties. She placed in a state writing contest before dropping out of the sixth grade. She has no high school credits to her name but has taught in high schools—where students in such places are still planning their escape.

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Mark DeCartaret

All The More Reason

for Sid Hall

There’s no theme here.

No me to remaster,

stream into the sea.

And nothing to tame

into meter. Not a single

note to sing or miss

having been sung.

If one mentions the rain

again, the air given to

sighs, or returns to

the tine’s rusty sounding,

it’s only for memory’s

sake, this short time--

long enough for the tune

to be named and then

danced to, reminding us

what all days are made

from and what for.

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Mark DeCarteret's 8th book Props was published by Bee Monk Press this year.

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