How the two fester at odds with each other,
poets and scar tissue.
The poet pulling off scabs, peeling back
the layers and scrubbing the skin raw;
the scar tissue glazing over the wound,
smoothing the suture, bridging the cut.
Imagine sticking the words onto paper,
stitching them on, tacking to keep them from tumbling,
as they do, off the page and into […]
Barnsmells of hay and chicken-shit,
dried white like gypsum
and dust-chokey to inhale,
underscore the hens purring
under the hot lightbulb.
Some shuffle and crane their necks
in a pecking hammer, bead eyes
blink—caviar in feathers—
while some are still, the low trill
and guttural sounds of the brooders,
soothing as they roost.
Hens plume over the eggs
like preening tea cosies,
warming perfect oval capsules.
Hold the […]
did your mother know how beautiful
you were floating like an astronaut
on your lifeline within her extended form
as she sang her starlit lullaby?
tiny hands flexed then
tiny legs pushed
now those same hands reach to grasp my fingers;
legs push down and lift you up
our eyes meet in wonder,
beaming, exalted at your accomplishment
both mouths open in delight.
~ Ben Nuttall-Smith
Ben […]
When butterflies paint
these eyes and rivers baptize
these dimples, it is
your smiles, my dear, I
long for.
~ Dikĕ Okoro
Dikĕ Okoro is the author of Dance of the Heart (MSU Press 2007) and editor of Echoes from the Mountain (MSU Press 2007). Dikĕ teaches world literature and writing at Olive Harvey College, Chicago.
it’s always distant
the fractured call of wild geese
as it is now, high and distant
and breaking, after the first note
to a deeper key
creating a plaintive yodel of sorts
though scrambled today
as they battle the rushing air;
their call is the sound of the north
and there is rain
a bleak fall drizzle
dampening down the fall smoke
from surrounding farms
and this fierce […]
