A BELATED THANK YOU TO MISS JOANNE MARTINS OF CATHEDRAL SQUARE PUBLISHING COMPANY IN MILWAUKEE WISCONSIN, CIRCA 1971. by Andrea Potos

A BELATED THANK YOU TO MISS JOANNE MARTINS OF CATHEDRAL SQUARE PUBLISHING COMPANY IN MILWAUKEE WISCONSIN, CIRCA 1971.

You must have guessed how, at 11-years-old, I craved
to be Jo March, scribbling in my garret,
mice scuffling under the floorboards, a heap of apple cores
beside me while rain battered the windowpanes.
By hand I wrote my 103 page novel modeled
not secretly enough after Little Women,
and I mailed it off to you.
Bless you Miss Martin for writing me back
three weeks later, for your neatly typed
bullet points of advice: Keep this manuscript
in a safe place, every month re-read, you’ll be surprised
at the improvements you can make.
Read as much as you can, get a library card.
When you describe an object or person, pretend
you are talking to someone who is blind.
Save your money and invest in a typewriter–a must!
Or ask your parents for one for Christmas.
When you tell your story, write as if
you are talking to a friend, the way you would talk
about something that happened at school.
A writer must always remember
his best friend is the reader. Please do not be
discouraged at receiving your first rejection.

*

Andrea Potos is the author of several full-length collections of poems, most recently Her Joy Becomes (Fernwood Press), Marrow of Summer (Kelsay Books), and Mothershell (Kelsay Books). Her poems appear widely online and in print, most recently in Potomac Review, Braided Way, Poem, and Lothlorien Poetry Journal.

Four Poems by Amy Smith

After You

I’m not any sadder, certainly not
sadder than that day in August, returning
bra to breasts in the dressing stall
at the mammogram place when Adele came on.
I’d only known you for two weeks then, but I wept
so hard I thought my chest would cave in.
And I remember how good it felt to be held at all–even
in that space, saddest of rooms. Looking back now
I think even cancer didn’t want me that summer,
and how lucky I am–
there’s still time for anything.

*

The Fourth of July

and nobody told the end of the world.
Or maybe the end of the world didn’t tell
the Fourth of July. Either way,
some things don’t need saying. And there are still
small kindnesses remaining: a sprinkler
slicing through the thickness of summer, the cardinal
unapologetic in her living, Mom
in the garden caring for things that return to her
year after year.

*

Ode to the MRI Machine

O
tunnel
of
terror
&
sound
take
courage
take
cover
turn
despair
around
take
wrong
take
rage
make
right
take
gadolinium
light
take
T2/Flair
take
tissue
take
bone
take
image
O
eggshell
white
throne
take
orders
take
oath
take
Hippocrates
to
hell

*

Acceptance

The night we waited for your sister,
warm after baths in the dim bedroom light,

you dragged a bug-eyed kitty cat up
my left arm, the one that’s usually numb

but not completely without feeling.
That August, the Reiki master felt it

and said, You’ve got blocked energy
there. And I cried, though I didn’t know why.

I guess even the stuffed animals sensed
I needed healing.

What a cute little guy! I said, watching
that bug-eyed kitty cat.

I had another one but it got lost in the butterfly room
forever and ever and ever, you said

(without the r’s,
or a trace of sorrow or self-pity).

You were three.
Even now, it astonishes me

how we love
the things we lose.

*

Amy Smith’s poems have appeared in Waxwing, Poetry Northwest, and elsewhere. She works in a high school library in central New York.