POEMS
TO MY WIFE
I wondered once, who loved the other more?
Until I caught you lingering on my face,
And there, in yours, I saw an opened door
That framed the sky. I held you close to brace
Myself, to keep from falling. Then a part
Of me, some desiccated rind, shrank back
While on the brink. But in your spacious heart
I saw you as you are; my shameful lack
Forgiven; the joy my smallest virtue brings;
Space to swing my arms around with room
To spare, to play a fool. I heard what sings
In me from you. No more do I presume
By wondering as I had done before;
If I could love like you—I’d love you more.
—Donald Kentop (1935-2024)
BESIDE THE SEASIDE
You wouldn’t say that she “submitted.” No,
Whatever prompted her was something new
and docile not at all. Perhaps it had to do
with the short turf, the white cliff edge, the slow
cloud promenade, the surge and thud below
as each fresh wave broke down. So, anyway,
touch, tremor, nakedness all made good sense
to her, quite suddenly, and down she lay
and smiled, and helped him to forget the tense
first panic, meeting not the least defense.
And afterwards, she begged a cigarette,
lazed on her back, and beamed back at the blue
sky, blameless. He was dumb. More vehement yet
the sky beat up against the cliffs, and threw
its whopping slogs into a cave that drew
the sinewed swell out of a foaming sleeve
and sucked it in, to—like one heaving block
of quartz—explode: boom hollowly; and leave
in skittery files licksplittling through the rocks,
till the next wave recruited them, and shocked
itself to spume, finding passivity
exceeded penetration. He watched (while she
lay with her skirt around her hips, and smiled
as at a dutiful, obliging child)
and felt the strangest pity for the sea.
—William Dunlop (1936-2005)
EVERY SPRING, IN CHICAGO
the fog rises at night
from the lake, and it clouds
the towers, the centers
of concrete and glass, and in the morning
migrating sparrows, robins, and thrushes
lie like raindrops on the streets;
other birds follow
lights of the buildings
around and around like moths
all night, working the air,
until breast and wing
sink into mist,
but some managers turn
off the top lights of their sky-
scrapers, and when the night clears
to a star, the birds
slip through
the open doors of the dark.
—Victoria Ford
YOUR SUNDAY VISIT, WITH ALZHEIMER’S
How carefully she navigates the shift
in talk that floats, without warning, a drift
bridging one story to the next. She’ll ask
a question, her face as smooth as a mask,
porcelain and composed when your answer blows
through her like the April wind. She follows
out of habit with a second query
even as new leaves shiver, the flurry
of words springing free from these sunny rooms.
She leans on decades of good manners, blooms
in the air between. The third question slides
gently and almost founders—the fourth hides
in a tall vase of dahlias. Then the numb
light behind her curtains fades just a thumb.
She reaches for the next card in her hand,
comes back to her first question, her last stand.
—Joannie Stangeland
THE MYSTERY
On the black-mantled altar
Of the tulip’s throat is a cross
Whereon light and hue are martyred
To a dark beauty.
Upon this sacrifice
Incense of golden pollen
From unseen hands is thrown
As if in recompense.
—Randolph Douglas Schuder
FIRST STARS, LAST LIGHT
He knew the night would soon arrive:
The turquoise-honey glow, first stars
Above the freeways full of cars,
The downtown towers lit, alive
With golden bustle. And he knew
That wintertime would soon arrive:
Lamps on each afternoon by five,
Leaf-freeing gusts and sleet, blue
Cold sun, the Christmas music on
In elevators. And he knew
Death strikes—at Mom now. Then at you,
Him, everyone. So every dawn
He prays for breath and life. When gone,
Who knows? He knows he’s still alive,
That death might happen during drive
Or dance, with Christmas music on.
—David D. Horowitz
SKY
Sky flows from haze to rain to stars: light pinpricks black
As if we’re seeing God, but only from the back.
—David D. Horowitz