Matinee by Patrick Phillips

Matinee

After the biopsy,   

after the bone scan,   

after the consult and the crying,   

for a few hours no one could find them,   

not even my sister,   

because it turns out   

they'd gone to the movies.   

Something tragic was playing,   

something epic,   

and so they went to the comedy   

with their popcorn   

and their cokes,   

the old wife whispering everything twice,   

the old husband   

cupping a palm to his ear,   

as the late sun lit up an orchard   

behind the strip mall,   

and they sat in the dark holding hands.

I Don’t Have a Pill for That by Deborah Landau

I Don’t Have a Pill for That

It scares me to watch

a woman hobble along

the sidewalk, hunched adagio

leaning on —

there’s so much fear

I could draw you a diagram

of the great reduction

all of us will soon

be way-back-when.

The wedding is over.

Summer is over.

Life please explain.

This book is nearly halfway read.

I don’t have a pill for that,

the doctor said.

Epitaph by Franz Wright

Epitaph

Now I’m not the brightest

knife in the drawer, but

I know a couple things

about this life: poverty

silence, impermanence

discipline and mystery

The world is not illusory, we are

From crimson thread to toe tag

If you are not disturbed

there is something seriously wrong with you, I’m sorry

And I know who I am

I’ll be a voice

coming from nowhere,

inside—

be glad for me.

The Rose by Mark Strand

The Rose

The sorrows of the rose were mounting up.

Twisted in a field of weeds, the helpless rose

felt the breeze of paradise just once, then died.

The children cried, “Oh rose, come back.

We love you rose.” Then someone said that soon

they’d have another rose. “Come, my darlings,

down to the pond, lean over the edge and look

at yourselves looking up. Now do you see it,

its petals open, rising to the surface, turning into you?”

“On no,” they said. “We are what we are—nothing else.”

How perfect. How ancient. How past repair.

Mother by Zbigniew Herbert

Mother

He fell from her knees like a ball of yarn. 

He unwound in a hurry and ran blindly away. 

She held the beginning of life. She would wind it 

on her finger like a ring, she wanted to preserve him. 

He was rolling down steep slopes, sometimes 

he was climbing up. He would come back tangled, and 

be silent. 

Never will he return to the sweet throne of her knees. 

The stretched-out hands are alight in the darkness 

like an old town.

(Translated by John and Bogdana Carpenter)

Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong by Ocean Vuong

Someday I’ll Love Ocean Vuong

  After Frank O’Hara / After Roger Reeves

Ocean, don’t be afraid.

The end of the road is so far ahead

it is already behind us.

Don’t worry. Your father is only your father

until one of you forgets. Like how the spine

won’t remember its wings

no matter how many times our knees

kiss the pavement. Ocean,

are you listening? The most beautiful part

of your body is wherever

your mother’s shadow falls.

Here’s the house with childhood

whittled down to a single red tripwire.

Don’t worry. Just call it horizon

& you’ll never reach it.

Here’s today. Jump. I promise it’s not

a lifeboat. Here’s the man

whose arms are wide enough to gather

your leaving. & here the moment,

just after the lights go out, when you can still see

the faint torch between his legs.

How you use it again & again

to find your own hands.

You asked for a second chance

& are given a mouth to empty into.

Don’t be afraid, the gunfire

is only the sound of people

trying to live a little longer. Ocean. Ocean,

get up. The most beautiful part of your body

is where it’s headed. & remember,

loneliness is still time spent

with the world. Here’s

the room with everyone in it.

Your dead friends passing

through you like wind

through a wind chime. Here’s a desk

with the gimp leg & a brick

to make it last. Yes, here’s a room

so warm & blood-close,

I swear, you will wake—

& mistake these walls

for skin.

Faith, Dogma, and Heresy by Frank Stanford

Faith, Dogma, and Heresy

It was Sunday, before dinner.

My uncles were listening to the opera.

O.Z. and I carried my brother in

And laid him on the table.

The women started screaming.

My brother raised up on his side

With dried blood on his hands,

We killed those goddamn Canale brothers

And nobody is ever going to touch us!

The men shut their eyes and danced.

We drank until morning

When everything was quiet.

They wiped their eyes, kissed us goodbye and left.