January 2023 | poetry
Chewing the Five Zen Remembrances
I inherit the results of my actions of body, speech, and mind.
You’re neither Buddhist nor Hindu, but here you are,
kneeling on a zafu, slack-jawed, fighting sleep.
You watch the breath at the center of your universe—nostrils,
diaphragm, belly, expand/deflate like a real yogi, growling.
When the woman next to you squirms, wheezing, old monkey
mind drops upside down from the ceiling, grilling your motives.
You’re there for nirvana, to disgorge the huddled sentries
from their watchtowers in your mind, perhaps a few enlightened
nights of sleep. You want to stand in tree pose without teetering
and to sit cross-legged without cramps. You ruminate
on those Zen fates one by one, a gastronomic ploy to get you
back to basics like unleavened bread: how you’re of the nature
to grow old or ill, to ingest small deaths—losing, always losing—
before the final one, your own. You know you can’t hold on
to anything for dear life, except for these common-sensicals
that rouse you from your torpor, roaring to be welcomed. Mother
gone, father gone, brother, too, gone. You root your feet, stack
your hips, knees, ankles. You drop your shoulders, tailbone.
You’ll play mountain, unfazed by wind or time. You breathe
for five counts in, I, too, am of the nature to die, then empty out,
I must be parted from all I love. On your knees, you extend
your arms, a child’s pose over their graves. You practice tree,
growing roots so you no longer fall. But monkey rattles
your branches each time you nibble at the fifth
of the Upajjhatthana Sutta. It sticks in your craw, breath trapped,
like when your morning prayer, My soul is pure, would make
you gag. Monkey see. Monkey laugh. Monkey-you skeptical
that the crumbs of your deeds—what’s left of you at the final
tally—can turn your monkey self to mensch. Your lungs fill, empty,
doing their business, and you keep chewing to get yourself right.
Edible Plant Walk
Array sun fern under your
pillow when nightmares trot
unbridled. Down knotweed—
japonica—worthy Samurai
to cross swords with Lyme.
Squeeze jewelweed to detox
poison ivy. Brew creeping
ivy with honey for strep. Steep
Joe Pye weed for gout,
deep breathing, or even fever,
and if you’re Joe, to get it
up for the night shift.
Mugwort—mother of herbs,
perennial, pungent—perverts
the sowing of Joe’s seed,
if you’re female. Or crumble
wild carrot—white, witchy
umbels of Queen Anne’s lace—
on salad to trip up your cycle,
to trick your inner mother.
Pamela Wax, an ordained rabbi, is the author of Walking the Labyrinth (Main Street Rag, 2022) and the forthcoming chapbook, Starter Mothers (Finishing Line Press). Her poems have received a Best of the Net nomination and awards from Crosswinds, Paterson Literary Review, Poets’ Billow, Oberon, and the Robinson Jeffers Tor House. She has been published in literary journals including Barrow Street, About Place Journal, Tupelo Quarterly, Connecticut River Review, Naugatuck River Review, Pedestal, Split Rock Review, Sixfold, and Passengers Journal. She offers spirituality and poetry workshops online from her home in the Northern Berkshires of Massachusetts.
October 2022 | poetry
Twice the raccoon attempts its nest,
her scaffolding slides away on a kind wind,
before gathering back into the rock’s hollow
shared with skunks and rivulets.
I am finally permanent and still
water refuses to keep my image. Suppose
my planetary wanderings do not subside. Suppose,
in this rigidity, this paltry wish for gardens
to die and come back different, suppose, Lord,
sick with boredom, that quality I’ve come to recognize
as singular, you finally decide motion lends
a certain excitement to water yet to form a canyon.
And having spoken, your fingers compass the quiet
world and wait for the sputter of change
on the other side of your hands. It’s as if
there never was a voice spurring
change through will, willing the multiplicity
of Animalia, of pollen to lie down in earth.
Nick Visconti
Nick Visconti is a writer living in Brooklyn with an artist, and a cat.
October 2022 | poetry
My great-grandmother was an early dementia,
only a few months over 60 when her mind started
to retire. My mother’s memory of her
moments are sometimes comical: a glass
of Wessen oil where there was supposed to be
water, Yiddish profanities without prompt,
and all five feet of her body bent over
in the parking lot, picking up after the dog
with her bare hands. A woman
from the old country, made foreign again in the land
she worked hard to love. She never forgot
how to play the piano, even as her children
became strangers. She filled her pockets
with stolen gum and other petty thefts.
A gold-coated lion paperweight, proudly gifted,
sat for decades on my grandmother’s desk
because no one had the courage to return it.
I was a kid the first time I heard that story,
of the lion and its origins, and of course I loved it,
the absurdity, her unwitting audacity. The absent
brain knows nothing of rules, etiquette, laws.
Either it doesn’t know, or it doesn’t care.
The way that the mind unravels is so frightening,
so unreasonable, that sometimes
the only thing you can do is laugh, or marvel.
Now in my possession, the lion is a treasure,
a reminder; even loss can bring us
beautiful things.
Danielle Shorr
Danielle (she/her) is an MFA alum and professor of disability rhetoric and creative writing at Chapman University. She has a fear of commitment in regard to novel writing and an affinity for wiener dogs. She was a finalist for the Diana Woods Memorial Prize in Creative Non-fiction and her work has appeared in Lunch Ticket, Hobart, Driftwood Press, The Florida Review, The New Orleans Review and others. @danielle
October 2022 | poetry
He wants a boy & will reward me for my trouble.
Back then, the passing down of lines – like God’s word invoking Eve’s loyalty. Grandpa’s on the beach drowning the horizon. The only sounds moths flying at the sun before bursting. I can feel the pink-whiskered zygote circling the womb searching for a shore to latch on to. Who am I but a siren song passed down from mother? I will never be a safe harbor. Why do we celebrate in pinks and blues before identity has time to steep? Spring is late. The lemons in the yard are green, still hard. Joe waits, palms cinched tight like a tarp over a bonfire. I press lies into ash as I birth her, a face I loved before it was fully formed. Joe is red as a thousand little papercuts. I turn away, embracing hope, the promise in this new skin.
Sheree La Puma
Sheree La Puma is an award-winning writer whose work has appeared in The Penn Review, Redivider, Stand Magazine, The Maine Review, Rust + Moth, The Rumpus, Burningword, and Catamaran Literary Reader, among others. She earned her MFA in writing from CalArts. Her poetry has been nominated for Best of The Net and three Pushcarts. She has a new chapbook, ‘Broken: Do Not Use.’ (Main Street Rag Publishing) www.shereelapuma.com
October 2022 | poetry
aubade for the crescent city
The ‘peopling’
and you gotta
love or hate
that word
of this here
cypress swamp
river bend
is a long long
and super short
complicated
very simple
non-story
of tales
fantastical
voluminous
adding up
to something
while subtractive
of itself
about to
multiply under
the radar
like people’s
lived lives
under this here
style of
economic and
cultural dredged
collection of
impulses and
reflexes and
imaginations and
indeed peopling
of people’s
peopling
a genuine
non-story
of tales
fantastical
intermittent
fractalled
microns of
feelings and
half thoughts
processed
refined and
marked up
to epic
proportions
dimensions
to get lost in
to meet a few
flakes lost
along the way
showing the way
by tales
fantastical
luminescence
blown away
by raging
storms slammed
against walls of
institutional
administrative
ministerings of
you guessed it
a non-story
of tales
fanstastical
interruptive
blown glass
mint julip
fluted beakers
cracking up
spilling out
a micron’s
worth of
effect on
the peopling
in process
on boulevards
in alleyways
in sturdy decorative
colorful abodes
and flopping
makeshift tents
under the highway
overpass
Rodrigo Toscano
Rodrigo Toscano is a poet and essayist based in New Orleans. He is the author of ten books of poetry. His newest book is The Charm & The Dread (Fence Books, 2022). His Collapsible Poetics Theater was a National Poetry Series selection. He has appeared in over 20 anthologies, including Best American Poetry and Best American Experimental Poetry (BAX). Toscano has received a New York State Fellowship in Poetry. He won the Edwin Markham 2019 prize for poetry. rodrigotoscano.com @Toscano200
October 2022 | poetry
“The raft is not the shore” — Thich Nhat Hanh, Being Peace.
Sinless dung,
oak tree preach,
buffalo boy’s grass, bowl of milk.
Let understanding grow.
Rock, gas, mineral,
water wash feet —
cosmos meditates on cosmos.
Escape is no escape.
See suffering.
Avoid stacked coins.
Ocean salt, ashes in a velvet bag —
truth knock.
Straw on mud,
blanket on concrete,
hydrant draped in silk.
Work no harm.
Gaze, even on vomit.
Vent noxious.
Bike monk,
breakfast with tree,
84,000 doors,
a raft, a finger pointing.
No browbeating.
No gossiping.
No lying.
Cloud in paper,
waiting for hawk flight.
Footprint of a prophet,
ripped veil.
Let live.
Answer door.
See.
Afraid of height, terrored of road,
insect-burdened, undesiring,
plant blank paper.
Every manner of thing will be well.
Book not yet performed.
Translate a single bird song.
Patrick T. Reardon
Patrick T. Reardon, a three-time Pushcart Prize nominee, has authored eleven books, including the poetry collections Requiem for David (Silver Birch), Darkness on the Face of the Deep (Kelsay) and The Lost Tribes (Grey Book). Forthcoming is his memoir in prose poems Puddin’: The Autobiography of a Baby (Third World). His website is patricktreardon.com. His poetry has appeared in Rhino, Main Street Rag, America, Autumn Sky, Burningword Literary Journal and many others. His poem “The archangel Michael” was a finalist for the 2022 Mary Blinn Poetry Prize.
