Bill

Bill
for Cindy

It was his nature to run
so he ran.
Ran in hours, not miles,
with no map other than
genetic memory.
He ran deep.

His hip had never healed.
He ran with a leg-dragging gait
mistaken as disability.
He ran with no gesture
that could be taken
as bitterness.
He ran true.

He ran for days with
the even clip of
a wind-blown boat.
He didn’t need to tack.
He ran direct.

When he tired, he still ran
until the need to run ran out
and then he’d find a porch
by a door, usually a woman’s door—
he preferred women—
and sit and wait to be found.

Having learned to suppress
her panic, Cindy was waiting
for the call. Your dog
is on my porch. I don’t know how
he got here, it’s so far.
Sometimes
she had to look up the town
on a map, although she’d lived
in Rochester for decades

Bill was waiting when she’d
drive up and open the door.
Settling into the passenger seat,
he’d smile, nuzzle her hand.

To love any being with its own
purpose, its own work,
you learn the compromise
between how you think
the world should be and how
your love needs to live.
And if you are lucky
these distance between these
is only as far
as a husky can run.

A Few Reasons to Oppose the War

A Few Reasons to Oppose the War
Lisa Suhair Majaj

because wind soughs in the branches of trees
like blood sighing through veins

because in each country there are songs
huddled like wet-feathered birds

because even though the news has nothing new to say
and keeps on saying it
NO still fights its way into the world

because for every bomb that is readied
a baby nestles into her mother
latches onto a nipple beaded with milk

because the tulips have waited all winter
in the cold dark earth

because each morning the wildflowers outside my window
raise their yellow faces to the sun

because we are all so helplessly in love
with the light

From Geographies of Light (Del Sol Press 2009).

Lisa Suhair Majaj, a Palestinian-American writer and scholar, was born in Iowa, raised in Amman, Jordan, educated in Beirut, Lebanon and in Michigan, and after spending many years in Massachusetts currently lives in Nicosia, Cyprus. Her poems and essays have been published in more than fifty journals and anthologies across in the U.S., Europe and the Middle East, and have been used in art installations, photography exhibits and political forums, as well as in more traditional venues. Her recently published poetry volume, Geographies of Light, won the Del Sol Press Poetry Prize. She is also co-editor of three collections of critical essays: Going Global: The Transnational Reception of Third World Women Writers (Garland/Routledge 2000), Etel Adnan: Critical Essays on the Arab-American Writer and Artist (McFarland Publishing 2002), and Intersections: Gender, Nation and Community in Arab Women’s Novels (Syracuse University Press, 2002).

Mud, Apples, Milk

Even though I didn’t grow up milking cows myself, I grew up with people who did, and I knew their connections to the cows, and I knew some of their cows. This poem makes me homesick for a childhood I almost, but didn’t quite, have.

Mud, Apples, Milk
Michael Walsh

Of all things to miss, it’s silly
to miss how cows drowse in mud.
They blink slow as toads.
Instead I should miss
light on the blond corn
or trails of gravel dust
that rose like kites and vanished.

But I don’t miss that.
I miss how I could bring
bruised apples, press them
like smelling salts
to sleepy noses.
You had to let go
real fast or risk a finger
to the lick and snap.

I miss their udders too,
the mud fresh as wax
on the swollen skin.
Each day I broke the seals
with hot rags, and milk
flooded my palm—
a white creek down
the gully of my wrist.

from The Dirt Riddles. © University of Arkansas Press, 2010.