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.

---

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

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Janine Certo

After Divorce

Then the foot with its haughty

arch becomes hill with a girl.

Run, run, one finger along

the horizon. Then the shin

with its impossible thin skin,

bone and blood becomes

the acacia trunk, the giraffe

bending to drink. Then

the thigh with its shame

and fat glory of alone, this

beach with no name. Then

the sex, a well, well-oiled,

a cave: Cave of Cyprus,

Cave of Calabria, Cave

of Swimmers—human

figures, limbs contorted—

then the solar plexus, a fire

with a nerve and ganglia,

once scrambling the chest

with panic, now becomes

a staid doe, an American

plain. Then the shoulder

extension, the new arm

and trust like a learned

hand. At last, the neck

with its impulse and cord,

flex, and the head turning

around, turning forward,

turning back to the ear

and eye. Who have you

loved? Pick each one up,

the intelligence of stones,

every navel with its land

and animal memory, split

like a fissure through the scar.

---

Janine Certo is the author of four poetry books, including O Body of Bliss, winner of the Longleaf Poetry Prize (2023); and Elixir, winner of the New American Prize and Lauria/Frasca Prize (New American and Bordighera Press, 2021).

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