My Hero Bares His Nerves by Dylan Thomas

My Hero Bares His Nerves

My hero bares his nerves along my wrist

 That rules from wrist to shoulder,

 Unpacks the head that, like a sleepy ghost,

 Leans on my mortal ruler,

 The proud spine spurning turn and twist.

 And these poor nerves so wired to the skull

 Ache on the lovelorn paper

 I hug to love with my unruly scrawl

 That utters all love hunger

 And tells the page the empty ill.

 My hero bares my side and sees his heart

 Tread, like a naked Venus,

 The beach of flesh, and wind her bloodred plait;

 Stripping my loin of promise,

 He promises a secret heat.

 He holds the wire from the box of nerves

 Praising the mortal error

 Of birth and death, the two sad knaves of thieves,

 And the hunger’s emperor;

 He pulls the chain, the cistern moves.

 

A Young Man by Jericho Brown

A Young Man

 

We stand together on our block, me and my son,

Neighbors saying our face is the same, but I know

He’s better than me: when other children move 

 

Toward my daughter, he lurches like a brother

Meant to put them down. He is a bodyguard

On the playground. He won’t turn apart from her, 

 

Empties any enemy, leaves them flimsy, me

Confounded. I never fought for so much—

I calmed my daughter when I could cradle 

 

My daughter; my son swaggers about her. 

He won’t have to heal a girl he won’t let free. 

They are so small. And I, still, am a young man. 

 

In him lives my black anger made red.

They play. He is not yet incarcerated. 

 

Omen to Get Your Ass Up by Angel Nafis

Omen to Get Your Ass Up

It’s hard for me to believe, but, believe

I do       the morning passed me by without

a thought or surrender           I am a miserable

Sunday shut-in           thirst caked up

without a quench in sight         until

I see my homie           waiting to cross

the impossible intersection of Flatbush & Woodruff

It could be         any nigga         afro’d, with metallic

red headphones, gym shoes, unbothered by the day,

but I know         who I know       So I tear open the

bedroom window           force my own messy head

through the metal bars           which are really just

suggestions anyway                     & right away the air

is kind as ever against my chin           trailing my neck,

my breast-plate, an alarm       as good as a homie who

I yell down to      who sees me now & is Hey Boo-ing

rushing past a zillion strangers with her take-out chicken

to the door of my building      no matter

the dice game                or puddles of piss

She says a walk around the hood

got her whole situation right

so now it’s clear who I can be

Summoning her             is summoning me

Here I am           glad to be another loud mouth

through an open window           exercising the right

to be beloved                I am saved for a moment  

the suspended heaven of being recognized

Hollering

Ashley!           Ashley!           Ashley!

Afterlife by Christopher Reid

Afterlife

 

As if she couldn't bear not to be busy and useful

after her death, she willed her body to medical science.

 

Today, as a number of times before, I walked

past the institution that took her gift, and thought,

 

'That's where my dead wife lives. I hope they're treating her kindly.'

 

The dark brick, the depthless windows, gave nothing away,

but the place seemed preferable to either Heaven or Hell,

 

whose multitudes meekly receive whatever the design teams

and PR whizzes of religion have conjured up for them.

 

My wife is in there, somewhere, doing practical work:

her organs and tissues are educating young doctors

 

or helping researchers outwit the disease that outwitted her.

So it's a hallowed patch of London for me now.

 

But it's not a graveyard, to dawdle and remember and mope in,

and I had work to do, too, in a different part of town. 

 

Dear Reader by Rita Mae Reese

Dear Reader

You have forgotten it all.

You have forgotten your name,

where you lived, who you

loved, why.

                      I am simply

your nurse, terse and unlovely

I point to things

and remind you what they are:

chair, book, daughter, soup.

And when we are alone

I tell you what lies

in each direction: This way

is death, and this way, after

a longer walk, is death,

and that way is death but you

won’t see it

until it is right

in front of you.

              Once after

your niece had been to visit you

and I said something about

how you must love her

or she must love you

or something useless like that,

you gripped my forearm

in your terrible swift hand

and said, she is

everything—you gave

me a shake—everything

to me.

               And then you fell

back into the well. Deep

in the well of everything. And I

stand at the edge and call:

                  chair, book, daughter, soup.

 

Her Long Illness by Donald Hall

Her Long Illness

Daybreak until nightfall,

he sat by his wife at the hospital

while chemotherapy dripped

through the catheter into her heart.

He drank coffee and read

the Globe. He paced; he worked

on poems; he rubbed her back

and read aloud. Overcome with dread,

they wept and affirmed

their love for each other, witlessly,

over and over again.

When it snowed one morning Jane gazed

at the darkness blurred

with flakes. They pushed the IV pump

which she called Igor

slowly past the nurses' pods, as far

as the outside door

so that she could smell the snowy air. 

 

Ode to Dusty Springfield by David Trinidad

Ode to Dusty Springfield

What makes                     

a voice                     

distinct?                     

What special                     

quality                     

makes it                     

indelible?                     

Yours is plaintive,                     

as any singer                     

of torch songs                     

must be,                     

yet endowed                     

with confidence,                     

and fully                     

in command.                      

Deep and                     

resonant,                     

a bit husky                     

if you like.                     

A voice that rises—                     

or skyrockets,                     

rather—from                      

a wellspring                     

of pure emotion.                     

Manically                     

infatuated                     

in “I Only                     

Want to Be                     

with You.”                     

Desperate to                     

keep your                     

lover from                     

leaving in                     

“Stay Awhile.”                     

Despondent                     

in “I Just                     

Don’t Know                      

What to Do                     

with Myself”                     

and “You Don’t                     

Have to Say                     

You Love Me.”                     

All cried out                     

in “All Cried                     

Out.”  But then                     

amazingly                     

on the rebound                     

in “Brand New Me.”                      

I hear your                     

voice, Dusty,                     

and I am                     

instantly                      

whisked                     

back in time,                     

not quite                     

a teenager                     

all over                     

again,                     

full of longing                     

and confusion,                     

listening                     

to your                     

latest hit                     

on my                     

red plastic                     

transistor                     

radio on                     

a mid-sixties                     

Los Angeles                     

suburban                     

summer                     

afternoon.                      

Twice in                     

my life, I                     

found myself                      

in the same                     

room as you.                     

Can one fathom                     

anything more                     

miraculous?                     

The first                     

time was                     

in 1983, late                      

November,                     

in the basement                     

of a church                     

in Los Feliz,                     

around the                     

corner from                     

where I lived.                      

Sober only                     

a few weeks,                     

I watched                     

you approach                     

the podium,                     

but didn’t                     

realize who                     

you were                      

until you                     

identified                     

yourself as                     

“Dusty S.”                     

For the next                     

twenty minutes,                     

you told us                      

the story                     

of your                     

drinking.                     

How early in                     

your career,                     

backstage                     

before a                     

performance,                      

one of the                      

Four Tops                     

handed you                     

your first                     

drink, vodka.                     

How smoothly                     

it went down                     

and loosened                     

you up,                     

lit you from                     

within,                     

gave you                     

enough                     

courage                     

to go out on                     

stage, into that                     

blinding spot,                     

and sing like                     

no one else.                     

The alcohol                     

eventually                     

stopped working—                     

it always does,                     

that brand                     

of magic                     

is transient—                     

and here you                     

were, two                     

decades                     

later, sober                      

and clean                     

and still singing,                     

so to speak,                     

before a live                     

audience.                     

In my youth,                     

your words                     

had come over                     

the radio                     

and stirred                     

feelings                     

of heartbreak                     

and infatuation.                     

Now they                     

inspired me                      

to keep                     

coming back.                      

The second                     

time, 1987,                     

four years                     

sober, at a more                     

upscale meeting                     

at Cedars-Sinai                     

in West Hollywood,                     

I sat directly                     

behind you.                     

It was hard                     

to breathe                     

being in such                     

close proximity.                     

I didn’t hear                     

a word the                     

speaker said.                     

During his                     

drunkalog,                     

I slowly,                     

surreptitiously,                      

moved the                     

toe of my                     

white high-top                     

until it touched                     

the back of                     

your folding chair.                     

Then said a                      

little prayer.                     

I hoped                     

(should I be                     

embarrassed                     

admitting this?)                     

that some                     

of your                     

stardust                     

might travel                     

down the                     

metal leg                     

of your chair,                     

like a lightning                     

rod, and be                     

passed on                      

to me.                      

It’s after                     

midnight                     

again, Dusty,                     

half a century                     

since, on                     

a suburban                     

lawn or alone                      

in my room,                     

I suffered                     

through hits                     

by Paul Revere                     

& the Raiders                     

and Herman’s                     

Hermits,                      

just to                     

experience                     

two or                     

three minutes                     

of your                     

sultry voice.                     

I’m on                     

YouTube                      

again, watching                     

the black-and-white                     

video of you                     

singing “I                     

Only Want                     

to Be                     

with You.”                     

Your 1964                      

appearance                     

on some teen                     

variety show.                     

I’ve viewed                     

it innumerable                     

times, but                     

it’s always                      

exciting to see                     

you dance                     

out of the                     

darkness into                     

the round                     

spotlight,                     

exuberant                     

as the song’s                      

intro, arms                     

outspread,                     

in a chiffon                     

cocktail                     

dress and                     

high heels,                     

your platinum                     

hair, sprayed                     

perfectly                     

in place,                     

as bright                     

and shiny                     

as the moon.                     

Midway                     

through the                      

song—the                     

instrumental                     

bridge—you                     

turn and                     

sashay around                     

the edge of                     

the spotlight,                     

the ruffled                      

hem of your                     

chiffon dress                     

twisting with                     

your hips                     

and intricate                     

footwork.                     

Circle circling                     

circle: your                     

full backlit                     

hair orbiting                     

the pool of                     

white light                     

in the center                     

of the stage.                     

I watch this                      

again and again,                     

like Bashō’s moon                     

walking around                     

the pond                     

all night long.