How We Rebuild by Christopher Barry

How We Rebuild

After his hip surgery
I asked my friend about meditation
because we have the same history
when it comes to pharmaceuticals
and I wondered how honest
he was with the doctor about his past
and how was he managing
with his wife keeping track of the pills
because as we inhabit these bodies
not designed to last as long as they do
how does sitting and noticing our breathing
help when bone rubs on bone where cartilage
used to be and tendon and ligament
fail to stretch around all that atrophy.

And my friend, who rebuilt one day at a time his life
only to wake one day with a titanium hip
that will outlast his body
and a prescription that reads like a note
from an old love that his wife
holds in her purse, understands
I am not asking a theoretical question
of suffering. Some days I sit
and follow my breath while my thoughts
snake through the wreckage of my past.
Some days no amount of detachment
and gently coming back to my breathing
is enough. I can manage the slow move
towards the surgeon’s knife
but what is strong enough to handle
the recovery that follows?

*

Christopher Barry is a teacher living in New Hampshire. His most recent work has appeared or will appear in “Feral,” “Scavengers,” “Poet’s Row,” and “Sport Literate,” and “Sardine Can Collective,” among other publications. Follow him on Instagram @mrbarrywrites

Three Poems by Joanne Leva

Lobster

You could crack my lobster or pitch a tent,
festoon it with pirates’ flags and shiny
things flapping in the wind. Stinging wind off
the Atlantic bluster but only half
a block from the hotel where we would stay
year after year. You’d walk for our pizza.
You, with outstretched, undeniable arms.
And, dutiful you, you’d deliver the hot
pepperoni and cheese to our sea mist
balcony overlooking the Sea Foam
Arcade, which overlooks the famous Love
Locks Park where large glycerin bubbles float
buoyant in transitioning summer sky.

*

Daily Routine in Lansdale, PA

Remember you are all people and all people are you.
—Joy Harjo

Remember the bed beneath your body,
the arrival of dawn. How peach color
reveals and illuminates the good sky.
How the reliable sun is mercy.
Remember how you walk on maple wood
floors. How the spirit goes along with you.
Remember your mornings, alone. The way
you remember the cat. How he adores
your lap. Remember your daily work. How
you step up. Remember your voice. Use it.
How green shoots start to show in early spring
and the hardened earth under the feeder
crumbles when you cross the yard. Remember

*

Final Arrangement

Let me tell you it wasn’t all bad, yes
it was Alcoholics Anonymous
on so many nights, car wrecks, chain smoking,
and tripping on acid in our house. Or
the night you left our bed and never came
back, set up a make-shift boudoir complete
with a large screen TV, CDs galore,
tobacco for rolling cigarettes. But,
it wasn’t all bad, there were good times too.
There was kindness in the middle of it.
Odd little kindnesses on my birthday,
our anniversary, Mother’s Day, and
that surf-tumbled, deep-purple sea glass ring.

*

An advocate for creative writing and community service, Joanne Leva is the founder and executive director of the Montgomery County Poet Laureate Program (MCPL), founder and coordinator of the Forgotten Voices Poetry Group out of the Indian Valley Public Library in Telford, PA, and author of the poetry collections Eve Would Know (2017) and Eve Heads Back (2020) published by Kelsay Books.

Leva’s poems have appeared in The American Poetry Review, Peace Is a Haiku Song, 50 Over Fifty, Apiary, E-Verse Radio, Schuylkill Valley Journal, Rag Queen Periodical, Bucks County Writer, Transcendent Visions, WILDsound Festival of Poetry and elsewhere. Her poem, “God Walks into a Bar,” was featured in a Philadelphia Calligraphers’ Society Poetry Reading & Exhibit and companion publication.

Parallels: A Pseudo Cento by Jean Voneman Mikhail

Parallels: A Pseudo Cento

          Texts between a son struggling
          with addiction and his mom.

i.

I am 21 years old. Stop tracking me.
I told you already,
I am somewhere on a huge bridge.
I walked out of Poetsmouth into Kentucky. Portsmouth, I mean.
I can see these huge fish in the river.
There’s this one really big fish.
I can see him on the bottom.
Then rain in my eyes.
I’m sorry, mom. I love you.
Can you Venmo me some water, Mama?
Can you Venmo me some Taco Bell, Mama?
No, I have not been doing meth.
No. I’m not on jack shit.
I am crying and my head hurts.
I can’t cry most of the time.
I am out of breath and sweating.
I don’t see any street signs.
I am so tired. I only see stop signs.
My eyes are so red and blurry.
No. I’m not high.
No. I haven’t taken klonopin
in like forever.
The lights are hurting my eyes.
I am scared to be alone, mom,
so I am begging on my knees.
Please, can I come home?
I know you don’t want me to.
I am so ready to get out of here.
I’m so tired of sober living.
I am so ready to be free.
My bed has been tilting.
I never have food.
I feel like I’m never
going to get out of here.
I just want to die.
Don’t worry if I don’t answer.
I am so scared to be alone.
I need friends. Like, Jesus Christ.
I’ve been calling him. He won’t answer.
Did he change his name, or what?

ii.

Maybe you’ve been grinding your teeth.
You need a nightguard.
Call the doctor again.
Call the court again.
I would try calling them again.
Just leave a message.
I wish I knew how to help you.
Just cry it out. You will be ok.
He will help you figure it out.
You’re not really alone.
You just need to decide.
I don’t know why you can’t see that.
Either you want to live or die.
Since you are using right now,
I can’t be around you.
I can’t be around drugs.
I’m sorry. I love you.
I’m not buying you anything.
But water? Ok.
Why are you on a bridge?
Can you stay in one place?
Like go somewhere and stay?
I will come get you.
Wait for me there. Please,
don’t go anywhere.

*

Jean Voneman Mikhail lives in Athens, Ohio, where she first came to study for a Masters in Creative Writing. Many years and a few kids later, she now writes more than ever. She has published in Sheila Na Gig Online, The Northern Appalachian Review, Pudding Magazine and other poetry journals and anthologies.

Two Poems by Jean Voneman Mikhail

Breath

Tent of my kid pitched in the backyard,
blown over, collapsing in on himself.
Tent stake through his heart.

I’ve left him to the rain, again,
grass blades stuck to his back,
huffing a billowy paper bag of breath.

A baggie of cut triangular sandwiches.
A baggie of blow. A baggie of weed.
Holy trinity of school lunches.

I have fed him to live to build
fingers for sandwiches and fiddle.
I have opened his Oreo black eyes

when they wouldn’t open.
I’ve unscrewed the lids,
and looked into the frosted eye whites

and scraped him of sweetness.
I fear I’ve made a mess of him.

I gave him sippy cups with blow holes.
Juice boxes with snorting straws.
Straws to stick up a turtle’s nose.

Once, he cared about
all the animals.

He cried for the neighbor’s kitten dead
in winter, fed on snowy moonlit milk.

He wanted the world to be kinder.

Is there any way to save him, now,
from chasing that washed up baggie
turning inside out in the waves

long ago down a stretch of beach,
a baggie filled with ocean water,
safety locked, zipped full of air?
His breath.

* 

LGLG

Dear God, with your capital G,
I see what you’re up to,
counting bodies down in Portsmouth,

Ohio, of all places to leave him.
God, listen to me, you can’t
have him all to yourself in an alley.

Your wrought iron doors,
windowless eyes bricked in,
having ceased watching over him,
haven’t you? How

would I ever know? Quietly,
cable wires cross this city,
trains rock themselves
to sleep at the end of the line.

But where is he, where is my son?

If he must die, if he must die,
how with dignity, how—
with forgiveness, how without shame?
How do I keep him from death
if death is what he chooses?

Should I lie down with him
and die, too, on the crescent moon
sidewalk of what was to be
our first total solar eclipse,

For my son, for my son’s life,
I’d give just about anything
except what I can no longer give.
No shelter. No food. No more.

God, no.

What kind of insanity is this?
Let go, let God. LGLG.
Give me a break.
I’ve given enough.

*

Jean Voneman Mikhail lives in Athens, Ohio, where she first came to study for a Masters in Creative Writing. Many years and a few kids later, she now writes more than ever. She has published in Sheila Na Gig Online, The Northern Appalachian Review, Pudding Magazine and other poetry journals and anthologies.