Poem with a Refrain from Charley Patton
by Travis Smith“. . . and now the guitar’s high note sings what he can’t sing it—” You hear him sing itwhen you come to strikethe matchand you catch a noseful of sulfurand the kindling starts to burn—
Subjects: Poetry
Stores
by William Harmon“. . . there’s Humphrey pumping drugs all out & sundae soda cracker pop . . .” general merchandise the old testament.wares notions sundries dry goods ready to wear candy hats cash & carry HarryTruman making change thanks.
Bourbon
by R.T. Smith“. . . Earl was a steady liar who never in his life solved a single crime, to hear my father tell it, an improvident soul prone to nocturnal misdemeanors himself . . .” My father was hooked on one brand, Ancient Age,always in pints perhaps to stow snug in the glove boxwith the pearl-handled »
Chocolate Pie
by Michael Chitwoodboth sweet and bitter, like that afternoon The woman who made ithadn’t been to churchin years, except for thereat the crimped dough edgesand beaten-egg cumulusof the browned meringue,and beneath it, the pudding,both sweet and bitter,like that afternoon,so long ago,just the two of us,talking a little, eating.
Raising Cane
by Tammy L. Brown“How can a stolen body steal cane? Blazing sun—no sign of rain . . .” Sweetman cuts sugarcaneBlistering sun—no sign of rainStalks tower overheadCutting cane ’til he dead
Emmett’s Wallet
by Philip C. Kolin“for smooth-talking Negro boys from Chicago more equal than separate . . .” They said I had picturesin my wallet, white girlsGisele MacKenzie, Joan Collins.It was immoral for a black boyto tote these Hit Parade darlingsin his hip pocket, going jukingwith their sweet white voices.
The Banjo
by Michael McFee“. . . until his finger pads started bleeding again, fresh calluses splitting as he played . . .” Plunking the rusty washtub basswas simple, tautening or relaxing its ropeso that a few thumping notesrose or fell at the floor of a bluegrass tune.
Flip
by Michael Chitwood“There are miracles in this world but they are working-class, Wednesday morning miracles . . .” There are miracles in this worldbut they are working-class, Wednesday morning miraclesthat go mostly unnoticed by the priests.
Poetry
Elegy for the Native Guards
by Natasha TretheweyNow that the salt of their blood Stiffens the saltier oblivion of the sea . . . —Allen Tate We leave Gulfport at noon; gulls overheadtrailing the boat—streamers, noisy fanfare—all the way to Ship Island. What we seefirst is the fort, its roof of grass, a lee—half reminder of the men who served there—a weathered »
Prayer for My Children
by Kate Daniels” . . . No, I regret nothing because what I’ve lived has led me here, to this room with its marvelous riches . . . “ I regret nothing.My cruelties, my betrayalsof others I once thoughtI loved. All the unlivedyears, the unwrittenpoems, the wasted nightsspent weeping and drinking.
Apple Slices
by Todd Boss“…flavored of tin from the lip of the cup of a dented thermos passed between us—” Apple Slices—eaten rightoff the jackknife inmoons, half moons,quarter moons andcrescents—stillsummon commonsummer afternoonsI spent as my dad’sjobsite grunt
Poetry
Ethel’s Sestina
by Patricia SmithEthel Freeman’s body sat for days in her wheelchair outside the New Orleans Convention Center. Her son Herbert, who had assured his mother that help was on the way, was forced to leave her there once she died. Gon’ be obedient in this here chair,gon’ bide my time, fanning against this sun.I ask my boy, »