Spiritual/Liminal
In October, the line between the ethereal and corporeal becomes blurred. These poems speak to the gossamer thread that separates life and death, and invites us to commune with those who have passed through the veil.
Heritage
by Mervyn Morris
whispering ancestors
enfold me in their loving
ghostly immanence
Morning
by Duo Duo
Translated from Chinese by Ming Di
it’s morning or any time, its morning
you dream of waking up, you’re afraid of waking up
so you say: you’re afraid of ropes, afraid of women with faces of birds, so
you dream of your father
speaking bird words, drinking bird milk
you dream of your father as a bachelor
who by chance, not in a dream
had you, you dream the dream your father dreamed
You dream your father says: this is a dream a dead man dreams.
you don’t believe but you’re inclined to believe
this is a dream, only a dream, and it’s yours:
it was once the handlebar of a bicycle keeping the shape squeezed by a hand
now, it droops from your father’s belly
it was once a son refusing to be born
now its you
crawling back to that handlebar you’ve dreamed all the details
like the teeth your father dropped on the ground, glittering
and laughing at you
so you are not the death
but merely a case of death: you’ve dreamed your dream’s death.
A Field of Red Poppies
by Daniel Simko
I can see them now, I think, bowing against absence,
and trusting us.
They are, what my friend calls, a mind’s glove.
Small death’s head, small bodies that are not there.
It is all right to think of them in a photograph,
or in a dream.
It is all right that they assume their sinister bend.
What else can you say about poppies?
How they remind you of your childhood,
or of someone who is not there.
That’s all.
And yet, this is a field
where they were throwing people once
That’s the story,
And it still matters. Because it is voiced.
A Mattress
by Jaroslaw Mikołajewski
Translated by Piotr Florczyk
Father blew it up for us every summer.
It’s thirty years old, maybe older.
Sand still falls out of the deep creases.
The thick spots still breathe the air of his lungs.
Until I throw it away, until the rats chew through it,
my father can go to the beach.
Tinned cough.
Reliquary of hazel pegs. Organic souvenir.
Balm of carefree breathing. Eternal rest.
A bellow of resurrection.
Heart Attack
by Morton Marcus
When I visited my friend in the hospital, he was smiling, his face pale
and small against the pillows.
“It was as if God had placed his whole hand on my chest with infinite,
loving gentleness,” he said. “I’ve never known such pain.”
Flag
by Katie Ford
Some come to this ruin and raise a flag.
Some take a prophet too soon by the hand.
The dead are still lost and the lost nearly dead:
Here a woman spills onto her porch to show
she has opened her wrists. What did she use?
She used the wind.
Ghost Driver
by Mervyn Taylor
He whistles while he waits
For a customer who never comes out.
The base often sends him on such
Wild goose chases all over the city.
In this neighbourhood he has been robbed
Repeatedly, has the mark where the barrel
Was the last time pressed against his temple.
He does not remember the gun going off,
But ever since drives through a twilight of
Wrong addresses and bad pickups, teenagers
Who bolt without paying, cops who ticket him
For expired insurance and tarnished medallion.
He never runs out of gas, sleeps in his cab
On the side of the road. Mavis, his shotgun rider
Has long since abandoned him; only yesterday
He noticed her makeup mirror still on the shade.
This fare is not coming. He sighs, makes a U and
Listens to the lilt of the West Indian dispatcher,
Asking if anyone near Ditmas and 23rd,
Anyone, anyone? Apparently not hearing over
The crackle as he repeats, I am,
I am, I am …
With Great Fear, We Inhabit Our Respective Mountains
by Brynn Saito
I’m talking to the dead in the dawn air
in the time it takes to eat seven grapes.
I’m learning how to distinguish poplar from holly
by closing my eyes and listening.
Sai-no-kawara is the place where a river splits life
from afterlife, where dusklight throws its shadows.
This is where I live now, brushing your hair
away from your eyes as if that will help me see better.
Is there a word for repeatedly going outside
to see if anyone is coming? Is there a word for wanting
to be a mother while not wanting to be a mother?
Sycamores are growing on the moon again
meaning anything is possible, including our continuing
to serve life on this planet even if we don’t
have a child. In all of the ways to come out of this
I choose this one: with you holding a flame in a jar
and dancing under little white lights strung like teeth.