12/10/2020 POETRY: RHEA TREGEBOVLE TEMPS DES CERISES Massacre in my kitchen, the counter spatter incarnadine, my hands bloodied with the juice of cherries splayed, gutted, for dessert at a friend’s; my fingers dyed a red that keeps in the fine creases, under the nails, through the next day’s breakfast, lunch. I tremble to sacrifice none of this, even though the cherries, local, organic, spoke to me, insisting on their innocence, the plump, burgundy wholeness of them. I didn’t think to spare them, never do; not them, nor the shrimp I clean for my son’s home-coming dinner, each shrimp life given up, given over to our celebration. Deeper into that same night I hear, through my open window, close, someone else’s baby cry – such grief, and nothing will ease it, not the breast or rest or warmth or darkness or light; nothing will ease it forever and ever or for the long moment till all is well and silent. We can’t help ourselves: who wouldn’t trade their own child’s comfort for another’s harm, another child’s harm? We can’t help ourselves, knowing it’s wrong, knowing there would be a remedy if we wanted it. Now someone has written a book I won’t be reading, about how the Earth would do without us, rewriting not the past (airbrushing Trotsky out of the Stalin snaps), but the future; a projection sans project-er. It’s getting hotter, we’re starting to agree we’ve fucked it up. The review says the author has visited fresh ruins, a city abandoned only decades, and it’s easy to foretell: bougainvillea purpling rooftops, the small fingers of roots diligently rubbing out difference. No inside; no out. To some perhaps it’s comforting to think of the Earth scratching at its ear (good dog!) and us no more than fleas in its coat: a good scrub, a sprinkling of powder and all is well again. None mourning our self- massacre, not the cherries gone wild, the gleeful shrimp gaining, all we consumed. He imagines furthermore humpbacks releasing their arias without contest, butterflies sculpting air. I don’t want to. Useless though my own life has seemed to me at times (despite cherries, despite friends), I want this curious project to continue, our certain hunger, our subtleties, our complicated contradictions. The arias less necessary to me than the way a mouth is held, the look in an eye, that engenders them. Though my own evaluation of the human is that, as the song goes, you can’t have one without the other. Previously published in All Souls’ Véhicule Press, 2012 Rhea Tregebov’s seventh collection of poetry, All Souls’, was published in 2012. Her poetry has received the Pat Lowther Memorial Award, The Malahat Review’s Long Poem Prize, Honorable Mention for the National Magazine Awards, and the Readers’ Choice Award for Poetry from Prairie Schooner. Tregebov is also the author of two novels, Rue des Rosiers and The Knife-Sharpener’s Bell, as well as five children’s picture books. Having retired from her position in the Creative Writing Program at University of British Columbia teaching in June 2017, she is now an Associate Professor Emerita.
12/10/2020 POETRY: CHING-IN CHENJAILED TREE in the water before the eye said brother barbed wire tree mine of bone who flashed bland sea for bargain can’t return a banished house or tiny mineral father couldn’t lose a follow brother singing another wind tune grows out of trench a trailing sea pried open grey city woman smells like orphan and sweat a small muscle world a kind of thick pouring chaining hush of voices circling up sky "Jailed Tree" first published in R2: the Rice Review. BREATH FOR GUAN YIN 1. brought to pond 10,000 steps a hum each cascade of yellow tile supported by sturdy red one metal figure waiting on water to quiet mind’s battle metallic rain horde means fill your bathtub cook all food no water in grocery store gas station line to empty crush of leftover white cardboard boxes floorlength we unpack lift boxes higher no bathing no showering do we have an axe? a tight set of drawers in lungs slow a breath for ritual smoke open late door and friend a shoe on busy rack enter already-breathing room one hundred golden figures sitting in perch each sewn seat in neat place considering attic a man walks in front of watching window no shoes we could second each foot slowly again again floor it a message says to knock on airbnb door 2. man or woman? man or woman? no other options at check-in ladies or jocks? no time for questions 11 size sneakers pair of grey shorts woman’s blouse children’s shoes what size? line of eagers at distribution line all-day Rice University students writing orders fill big blue bags sort through assembly walkers toothbrushes pillows blankets a hot commodity special line form to right ‘don’t you Mister me!’ I see who wanted ladies’ shoes repeating request ‘I’m not a Mister! I’m not a Mister!’ & no response before turning away from line toward a line of beds volunteer supervisor no time for questions I write on post-it note please no assumptions please respect please no time for questions 3. friend said ‘all the aunties chanting’ brought me green one sound four meanings I enter inflection meaning mother not horse meaning guide sits sings lesson from diverging mouth chemical cloud ping pings a hot, rushing air all bodies in yard humming in mind thick infection in head can’t say I broke much trying not to ingest 10,000 hurricane microbes let go spider tendrils 4. at the lost and found eyeglasses a credit card note left at desk because no cell phone woman in wheelchair checks in again about no cell phone cold boxed pizza white-haired unshaven’s waded through waters wants help calling FEMA from Louisiana to Katrina lost bags maybe at last shelter lost daugher or son back in LA we roll through shelter names and phone number I inhale smoke dial disembodied numbers to receive heart knows how to attach sister in empty seat how to cling worthy ache how to bring down rain why chant dead grandmothers into room animal set loose in chest only one a believer and other a cook preparing food for hungry repentants 5. when street drains is there pressure in street all notes escaping injure to try not exhume breath from body walk away from dead night throw arms to air hoping for birds to land "Breath for Guan Yin" first published in Spiral. Ching-In Chen is author of The Heart's Traffic (Arktoi/Red Hen Press, 2009) and recombinant (Kelsey Street Press, 2017; winner of the 2018 Lambda Literary Award for Transgender Poetry) as well as the chapbooks how to make black paper sing (speCt! Books, 2019) and Kundiman for Kin :: Information Retrieval for Monsters (Portable Press at Yo-Yo Labs, 2020 and a Finalist for the Leslie Scalapino Award). Chen is also the co-editor of The Revolution Starts at Home: Confronting Intimate Violence Within Activist Communities (South End Press, 2011; AK Press 2016) and Here Is a Pen: an Anthology of West Coast Kundiman Poets (Achiote Press, 2009). They have received fellowships from Kundiman, Lambda, Watering Hole, Can Serrat and Imagining America and are a part of Macondo and Voices of Our Nations Arts Foundation writing communities. A community organizer, they have worked in Asian American communities in San Francisco, Oakland, Riverside, Boston, Milwaukee and Houston. www.chinginchen.com
12/10/2020 POETRY: SUSAN HALDANESEED CATALOGUE FOR THE END DAYS Orange Sun Peppers – Drought tolerant. Bitter Gourd – Heavily warted green skin; excellent adaptation to environmental stresses. Eden White Corn – Requires isolation from other corn. Good for home garden or barter. Serengeti Bush Bean – Resistant to Bacterial Brown Spot, Common Bean Mosaic Virus, Anthracnose, Benzene, Mercury. Bulls Blood Beet – Holds up well under long-term storage. Atomic Red Carrot – Grows in ash. First published in Grain Summer 2019. Susan Haldane is a writer and editor in Northeastern Ontario. She and her husband run a grass-based livestock farm, and their farmhouse front porch looks south to Algonquin Park. Her poetry has been published in a number of Canadian journals, and her chapbook Picking Stones is with Gaspereau Press.
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