October 2014 | back-issues, poetry
“Minimum-wage workers are older than they used to be.”
The New York Times, June 9, 2014
Yes, it’s true.
I have confirmed it by close personal observation of the girl behind the counter at the Dunkin’ Donuts on Union Turnpike.
I go in there twice a week for a glazed donut and a cup of coffee
And I always leave a $7 tip on top of my $3 tab.
And no, it’s not because she’s so cute
Although I can understand why you would think that.
It’s because she always refills my cup when it’s running low and because she lets me linger for hours sipping coffee and scribbling poetry and because I like to add a little supplement to her measly minimum wage.
Lately I have noticed little lines forming next to the corners of her eyes.
Don’t get me wrong, she’s still just as cute as ever, the little lines become her,
But they do lead me to conclude that she is indeed older than she used to be.
And it’s not just the minimum-wage workers.
I have also observed the manager of the Dunkin’ Donuts.
I see that his paunch has expanded,
Which could just be a side effect of the donuts he ingests,
But I also see that his hairline has receded,
Which I think is clear evidence that he, too, is older than he used to be.
And then there’s my dentist.
At my last annual cleaning, I noticed that his hands were shaking slightly when he stuck his instruments into my mouth.
I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by saying anything so I closed my eyes and pretended it wasn’t happening.
(I have found this to be an effective technique for dealing with the unpleasant or dangerous situations that come up in my life.)
But afterwards, when I was safely home again, I had to admit that my dentist is probably older than he used to be.
Hillary Clinton is definitely older than she used to be.
So is Derek Jeter.
Even Uncle Alvin.
There was a time when I believed that Mom’s kid brother would be forever young
But that was before Aunt Debbie died.
In just the six months since Debbie left us, Al has become noticeably older than he used to be.
His sparkle has diminished.
And that breaks my heart.
So it seems that just about everyone is older than they used to be
Except for the poets.
Not all, but most of the poets I know are younger than they used to be.
I don’t know why that is.
I think we need a crack investigative reporter from The New York Times to look into this phenomenon and find out what is going on with the poets.
by Pesach Rotem
Pesach Rotem was born and raised in New York and now lives in northern Israel. He received his B.A. from Princeton University and his J.D. from St. John’s University. His poems have been published or are forthcoming in Voices Israel, the Deronda Review, Constellations, The Saint Ann’s Review, and East Coast Literary Review.
October 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Gardenia hues
A Gardenia
changing hues
in the summer temper
What color am I
when I am mad?
The toad is lonely too
A fallen tree
and a toad
following my heels
as I carry the weight
of both our loneliness
Leg ashes
Shadows glide across
her white face
as she stands and observes
the motion of my blistered feet
that walk across the ashes
of her legs
Grief and the gypsy dancer
Someone grieving over me
as I stand on the roof
and watch the mysterious movement
of a gypsy dancer
Bat flames
A pile of bones
and the ghost of a bat
circling the fire
I have started
just to dance
and feel exciting
by Ashlie Allen
Ashlie Allen lives in the east coast, where she plans to attend Literature school. She also has plans to study photography.
October 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Damage, today I’m obsessed with damage.
The cored-out heart of the rose, not the bud
or the bloom, but root to flower—
whatever’s maimed, blemished, blistered, harmed,
this skin the talon, the thorn has hooked—
morning’s minion, ha—
and those shreddy clouds the sky assembles
only to have something fun
to tear into pieces. I remember Vuillard’s painting awash
with parlor knickknacks, his floral decor so chintzed
you can’t tell carpet from chair from curtain, can barely see
the old woman dying quietly in her rocker.
Down the street, in the corner shop the hollowed slabs
of ribcage swing. From the café radio
Janis Joplin’s ropy voice,
almost present, then static, then gone.
Something gleams from the hubcap, saying,
It’s evening, you lived so long,
what have you done? Answer it back, oh hubcap,
some things can’t be lived through—
the bolus we grow around—but there is
some endurable affliction,
the abscessed hoof sliced back until it bleeds;
we pack in the mud and wait and hope
enough foot grows back to nail on a shoe.
The long days are marked by waiting by the phone,
by the door, by the mailbox, and the sense
that the days themselves are passing.
by Helen Wickes
Helen Wickes lives in Oakland, California, and worked for many years as a psychotherapist. In 2002 she received an M.F.A. from Bennington College. Her first book of poems, In Search of Landscape, was published in 2007 by Sixteen Rivers Press. Her poems can be read and heard online at From The Fishouse. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in AGNI Online, Amarillo Bay, Arroyo Literary Review, Atlanta Review, California Quarterly, The Citron Review, Confrontation, Corium Magazine, Crack The Spine, Eclipse, Evansville Review, ginosko, Pirene’s Fountain, RiverSedge, Sakura Review, Sanskrit, Santa Fe Literary Review, South Dakota Review, Stand, Talking River, TriQuarterly, Runes, ZYZZYVA, Zone 3, Chicago Quarterly Review, The Collagist, The Hollins Critic, Jet Fuel Review, The Journal, Natural Bridge, Qwerty, Santa Clara Review, Folly, Forge, Green Hills Literary Lantern, Limestone, PANK, Mary: A Journal of New Writing, The Spoon River Poetry Review, Cloudbank, Bryant Literary Review, Eclectica, Ellipsis…, Southwestern American Literature, Willow Review, FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry, Hanging Loose, Prick of the Spindle, Boulevard, Soundings East, Verdad, The Coe Review, Concho River Review, Crucible, The Jabberwock Review, Kaleidoscope, Pleiades, PMS poemmemoirstory, SLAB, Visions International, The Griffin, Salamander, Splash of Red, Epicenter, Barnstorm, Poetry Flash, In the Grove, Freshwater, Schuylkill Valley Journal of the Arts, Weber: The Contemporary West, West Marin Review, Whisperings, Softblow, 5 AM, the Bennington Review, Picayune Magazine, Delmarva Review, The Tower Journal, Sagarana, and the anthology Best of the Web 2009.
