Tag: date

Three Poems by Lucy Griffith

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What is saving me

How the tracks of turkey
in the talcum dust
show the joints of his middle toe
as if a piece of rebar
went for a walk.

I’m two-syllable
tired of the chaos―
so I take my own hand,
like a toddler,
bend low to the ground,

see the spider take cover
in the tiny cap of an acorn.
I want to crawl in with her,
to share
her makeshift cave,
her sheltered outlook.

To soften towards the world,
I watch an armadillo plow
for bugs in the powdered earth.
Notice her nose, white with age and industry,
wonder the sad story
of that round hole in her left ear.

* 

Living by Ear

One May midnight, a million wings overhead stirred the air, flowing south. Nearby the aching volta of loon cry. Camp in the desert, the sound of no sound. The whistle of mourning dove wings. A nighttime prayer of calling owls. The sharp retort of buck fight, skirmish after skirmish. Black vultures soft wingbeats sound like the shake of a loose-skinned hound. Their cousins, turkey vultures, glide on thermals in utter silence. Porcupines purr in the trees after dark. Carolina wren stakes his claim with a stuttering sound like a thumb running down a comb.

at dawn the moon set
in the lap of attention
a shard of opal

* 

Knowing that this can’t go on forever

We joke It’s datenight day
Mostly Saturdays, taking turns.
Plan, shop, pick a theme, type a menu,
add a relevant soundtrack.
Our house aromatic for hours.
No TV. No phone. Shower. Dress up a bit.
Take each other’s pulse.
Weekly report: Sightings of roadrunner, coachwhip, brushfire.
What made us laugh: a back and forth with raven,
the fox’s post-nap yoga. Shared worries: fragile democracy,
ethnic cleansing of the neighborhood, cruelty and
shocking depravities. How to cope or how we’re not.
Perhaps a dance: one swing, one slow.
Then leaning against each other
in front of the fire, its own prolonged sunset.
Listening on the porch for owls, or
turkeys laughing on their way to roost.
Ask fresh questions.
I share where to toss my ashes,
not there, the next rock over.
You share I want to go first and fast.
We reach for each other’s hand―
because we can―
hoping to brake the speed of time.

                             ~ title from Jason Isbell’s “When We Were Vampires”

*

Lucy Griffith lives beside the Guadalupe River near Comfort, Texas. As a retired psychologist, she explored the imagined life of the Burro Lady of West Texas in her debut collection, We Make a Tiny Herd, earning both the Wrangler and Willa Prizes. Her second collection, Wingbeat Atlas, pairs her poems with images by wildlife photographer Ken Butler, to celebrate our citizens of the sky. The Place the Spiders Waved, a memoir in verse, was a Willa Finalist. She’s been a Bread Loaf scholar, a Certified Master Naturalist and is known to stare at the river for long periods of time.

Three Years After You Die, I Have My First Date by Roberta Spivek

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Three Years After You Die, I Have My First Date

because isn’t it time to stretch
limits, test waters, live

out all those clichés?
What do you do for fun

he asks and when I
blank he reveals

the sports teams he follows,
cardio workouts,

twisting spiritual path.
I’m a real beach nut, he says

but he’s lost me to you
at the water’s edge

in your black trunks,
that dive through

the breakers, your
effortless crawl.

Because didn’t it feel
we belonged to the

couple we made in the
Victorian town

with its bistros,
its roped-off

dunes of nesting plovers,
the red-haired guy

we rented bikes from,
its lagoons full of swans?

*

Roberta Spivek is a Philadelphia poet. Her poems have appeared in Friends Journal, Muleskinner Journal, Naugatuck Review, New Croton Review, Ritualwell, Women’s Studies Quarterly and other publications. She has spasmodic dysphonia, a speech disorder.

First Date by Mariana Llanos

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First Date

It was just a first date–
two nervous strangers meeting for the first time.
The place was full, I think,
but I can’t clearly remember
‘cause I couldn’t take my gaze off of you.
And I don’t know exactly what drew me into you.
Perhaps the singsong of your country accent,
or your stories and mischievous smile,
or your blunt sincerity, almost as if
you couldn’t stop the truth from shooting
out of your mouth.
We didn’t eat much
–you had a beer, I munched on sweet potato fries–
and we left
to saunter under the stars on a calm and unusually pleasant
early November night.
We chatted lively,
like two people who had a lot to share
and even more to learn from each other.
You asked, “What do you miss most about
not being single?”
I thought for a brief moment because I had a long list,
but I only said, “I miss the company. Watching TV with someone.”
You smiled like you knew I was keeping some things to myself.
“And you?”
“I miss waiting,” you said.
“Outside the mall, while she’s out shopping.
Just sitting down, and waiting.”
And time went by unhurriedly,
and there was much more to say, but it was late.
We strolled toward our cars and you held my hand–
my heart pumped faster but you didn’t notice.
You showed me your truck while you told me
more work stories.
Then you walked me to my car
and as I searched for my keys
–I really didn’t want to leave–,
you bent down, and pressed
your lips on mine.
And I didn’t care about passersby, or the time,
or that I never kiss on the first date,
because I wanted your lips too.

When we talked the next day
I could feel you smiling even without seeing you
or perhaps it was me who beamed for both of us.
And there was that awkward moment
when you don’t know what the other person is thinking
or if anything each of us felt was reciprocated.
But you dared and said, “I wanted you to kiss me on my truck.”
A wave of desire engulfed my skin.
“I wanted you to kiss me longer,” I said.

And at that moment,
I knew that I had known you for a long time.

*

Mariana Llanos is a Peruvian born writer and poet. Her poetry has been included in independent journals and in Poetry Magazine Young People’s Edition. She is a recipient of a Pura Belpré Honor for her children´s book Benita y las criaturas nocturnas. She lives in Oklahoma.