Tag: falls

Three Poems by Louisa Muniz

~ ONE ART ~ 6 Comments

About-Face on Smith Street

In the window at Hamilton’s Shop,
the mannequin wore

bell bottoms,
a suede fringe belt,
a multicolored vest.

Her body posed,
mine falling as I ran
to catch up to him.

It had been months.

I tripped on the uneven sidewalk.

I feigned calm
as the woman hurrying past
asked if I was hurt.

Hurt? Let me stitch the frayed hem
of a daughter’s heart.

The only time I remember
my father laughing

was watching The Honeymooners…
to the moon, Alice, to the moon.

Laughter ashed in his throat,
moved jagged through me.

I picked myself up before he turned.
His shadow oblivious to mine.

Unscathed, the mannequin stared
straight ahead.

I turned and walked the opposite way.

*

I Ask God to Lend a Hand

The morning stirs its cup
into the bowl of day.
I wake to hay in my head.

In the kitchen I gently rub
the money tree’s leaves
between my palms.

Through the window,
the rabbit’s stillness
mesmerizes.

Outside, I draw the dogwood’s
white blossoms to my face.

Its branches bob back & forth.
I give her the attention I need.

There were times I gave away everything:
my secrets, my clothes, even my time.

Now I give in to silence.
Listen for God’s guidance.

God trills like a blackbird,
chirps like a sparrow.

During the hour of tenderness
the sun gathers on my shoulders.

Purple self-seeding flowers
sprout between stones.

I open my hands.
Put down the sword.

Let what’s good in.

*

Keeping the Faith

My husband’s car sits unused for weeks.
He asks me to start it.

To his surprise, it starts immediately.

See… you have to have faith, I say.
Faith is a key and a good battery, he replies.

I smile & wonder after all this time
how we see things so differently.

It’s June. Jasmine pinwheels perfume the air.

The dogwood tree outside our window
strews blossoms across the pavement.

I point out how beautiful the tree looks.
He glances, grunts. Uh-huh.

At the supermarket I meet an old colleague.
She tells me her husband died four years ago.
Being alone is really, really terrible.

After weeks of caring for an ill husband,
I’m filled with gratitude.

At home, I lean into his moss-sweet heart.

Come sit with me, tough guy.
I’ll keep the faith.
You keep it running.

The wild horse in him breaks through.

*

Louisa Muniz lives in Sayreville, N.J. She holds a Master’s in Curriculum and Instruction from Kean University. Her work has appeared in ONE ART, Tinderbox Journal, Palette Poetry, SWWIM, Jelly Bucket, PANK Magazine, Anti-Heroin Chic and elsewhere. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and a Pushcart Prize. Her debut chapbook, After Heavy Rains was released in December, 2020. Her chapbook, The Body is More Than a Greening Thing was published in June of 2025 by Finishing Line Press.

Two Poems by Rachel Marie Patterson

~ ONE ART ~ 1 Comment

Stonetown Road

Sunday, black coffee and
rectangles of dishwasher soap.
We get the call at 10:30—
my mother-in-law fell hard
on the kitchen floor.
So we race two hours north
to find her in a mechanical bed,
two staples in her head,
asking every nurse to take her
for a cigarette. When I ask,
she can’t remember whether
she chewed the aspirin.
Outside the security glass,
a hawk surveys the embankment.
The night we met, I howled
with laughter as she gripped
my sleeve with a gauzy, manicured
hand. Her eyes were as clear
as the lake behind us. How
my husband gushed and beamed.
His mother used to write cards
and keep appointments, before
her pretty cursive looped away
to oblivion. In the ICU, he leans
to kiss her bloody forehead.
I know now I will watch him
lose her, slowly. Driving back,
we pass his childhood home–
the natural pool full of snakes.

*

Emergency Vet

When the dog stops blinking, I wrap
her in a towel and swerve the highway,
one palm cupping her distended bowel.
In the cement waiting room, black
coffee in a styrofoam cup. I stare
at the framed canine dental chart
while they thread the catheter and split
her open. Remember how she ate tissues
from the trash because they were mine,
wore circles into my bedroom carpet.
For 13 years, she followed me
from home to home, licking the salt
from my eyes. Now, there is nothing
to do but leave her.

*

Rachel Marie Patterson is the co-founder and editor of Radar Poetry. She holds an MFA from UNC Greensboro. Her poems appear in Cimarron Review, Harpur Palate, New Plains Review, The Journal, Thrush, Parcel Magazine, Smartish Pace, and others. The winner of an Academy of American Poets Prize, her work has also been nominated for Best New Poets and Best of the Net. Her poem “Connemara” was a Special Mention for the Pushcart Prize in 2019. She is the author of Tall Grass With Violence (FutureCycle Press, 2022).