Two Poems by Judy Kronenfeld

“Senior Living”

Sometimes it seems like a Dantean limbo
of the walking dead—the bent at 90 degrees,
the shaking whose forks trip on the way
to their lips, the halt who shuffle tortoise-pace,
and those whose maladies escape
naming—the tongue rolled upwards
spasmodically filling a mouth,
like pink porridge in a pot
rising over and over to a boil.

Sometimes it feels like
the theater of redemption.

Here, in the crepuscular hour,
where skin gathers
on the face in crepey folds,
hair withers like leaves
revealing bareness underneath,
I rush to carry a new friend’s
laden plate from the buffet
while she Rollators back to our table;
I offer her my water
when the waiter’s late.
Here HELLO! follows Hi!
Everyone greets unknown others
in the halls—like bonded passengers
in the same relentless boat, traversing
the pitch-dark river.

*

Moment, Registered

On a stark strange-to-us
persistently clouded day
in our new still alien
senior home we don’t yet
call home, my husband,
with his sieve memory, and I—
bundled in the “winter clothes”
once kept at the back of our closets
“back home in California”—
hold gloved hands for a short walk.

Just ahead of us on the path,
a chubby gray squirrel
velvet-white of chest sprints
down a brown grassy hill and leaps
into a bare tree, balancing
on a jiggling twig-thin branch.
We both watch, but only I file.

Then the round bundle bounds up
into the air again, springing
from one bouncing spindly limb
to another, as if for the sheer green
glee of it—like a kid on a trampoline—
and my husband claps his hands.

Joy! For the present-minded,
even among the beasts.
If not in my heart
just yet.

*

Judy Kronenfeld’s six full-length books of poetry include If Only There Were Stations of the Air (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, 2024), Groaning and Singing (FutureCycle, 2022), Bird Flying through the Banquet (FutureCycle, 2017), and Shimmer (WordTech, 2012). Her third chapbook is Oh Memory, You Unlocked Cabinet of Amazements! (Bamboo Dart, 2024). Judy’s poems have appeared in four dozen anthologies and in such journals as Cider Press Review, Gyroscope Review, MacQueen’s Quinterly, New Ohio Review, One (Jacar Press), ONE ART, Rattle, Sheila-Na-Gig, Valparaiso Poetry Review and Verdad. Her newest book is Apartness: A Memoir in Essays and Poems (Inlandia Institute, 2025). Judy is Lecturer Emerita, Department of Creative Writing, UC Riverside. In another life, she produced scholarship on her English Renaissance loves, George Herbert, John Donne, and Shakespeare, including King Lear and the Naked Truth: Rethinking the Language of Religion and Resistance (Duke UP, 1998).

Four Poems by Hilary Sideris

Treatment

If not for that need
I took for love & then

that shove, I wouldn’t have
married & divorced &

owed five years
of maintenance to my ex-

spouse whose accent
I found sexy till I didn’t.

I wouldn’t have been awake
at 3 AM to see that bug

traverse our coverlet
& watch the blood—mine?

his?—gush as I crushed it
between finger & thumb.

The toxic squad
wouldn’t have come &

sprayed our bed, treatment
for which I also paid.

*

Testosterone

Ground down like a soft
graphite stub in a hand-turned

sharpener, at night I count
backwards to the beginning

of divorce till boredom
overcomes remorse. How many

have been fired since cancer
research stalled? Fools in charge

confuse transgenic mice with
transgender men. My lawyer

Venmos a reminder to replenish
his retainer. U-Haul boxes

accrue dust, pile up like debts
beside my bed. Should I have

tried testosterone, purchased
a magnifying mirror, plucked

my upper lip & wanted sex
with my husband?

*

Shove

My cute nephew, a studious child,
has joined a frat, lifts weights,

drinks protein shakes. Last week
he shoved his mother when she

got up in his face—my little sister
isn’t asking for advice. I offer none.

Now’s not the time to say the man
I married hit his mom. What’s

worse, a husband or son’s shove?
She hopes he finds a girlfriend soon.

* 

Boomer Beach

I’ve only met you once,
for Thai, but you live on a beach
& I watch waves to meditate,
so I lie to my therapist,
drive to your gated community.
The surf, gnarly before an early

Nor’easter, churns up the Jersey
shore, its seawall higher, reinforced
since Hurricane Sandy. I take a picture—
not of us—of the wild rose hips,
their easy sway that says we’re all
fair game, but we’re still here.

After two glasses of Sancerre,
you talk at length about containing
hydrogen—not arrogance, I think,
just a man lost in his work.
You say you levitated in your youth,
show me a star-shaped scar

in your left palm, stitches between
finger & thumb, tell me about
the house in the California hills
you didn’t want to sell,
but the wildfires
burned closer every year.

*

Hilary Sideris is the author of the poetry collections Calliope (Broadstone Books, 2024), Liberty Laundry (Dos Madres Press, 2022), Animals in English (Dos Madres Press, 2020), The Silent B (Dos Madres Press, 2019), Un Amore Veloce (Kelsay Books, 2019), The Inclination to Make Waves (Big Wonderful LLC, 2016) and Most Likely to Die (Poets Wear Prada, 2014). Originally from Indiana and a longtime Brooklyn resident, she is a co-founder and curriculum developer for CUNY Start, a college preparatory program within the City University of New York.