To Raise a Son by Ingrid Andersson

The hens have started laying again.
So with renewed gratitude
this Easter Sunday morning,
my young son and I
clean the chicken coop
(fowls’ foul nests, we joke)
and sift rabbit poop
from the chicken food.
I tell him about Eostre,
goddess of spring, who
(stories say) saved a bird
with frozen wings by transforming
her into an egg-laying rabbit.
“Why?” he likes to ask.
“For luck,” I guess, “perhaps
in overcoming death,”
which makes me bring up
the dark ages, when ever-hedging
humans began to color
eggs like flowers, like jewels
containing precious suns.
“That’s what we’ll be doing,”
he adds, and we chat
with each hen by name,
pondering the meaning
of her calls, then free
their dinosaur bodies
to run and scratch and sprawl
in sunny oases of sand—
“Do you think dinosaurs
loved our sun this much?” I ask.
“More,” he says, “if they were
cold-blooded,” knowing
this is something scientists question,
and at last, we open
the laying box: “Four eggs!”
he shouts, bloomed and warm.

From: https://literarymama.com/articles/departments/2022/03/to-raise-a-son

Date: 2022

By: Ingrid Andersson (19??- )

Aslant by Becky Boling

When you look at me, do it from the side.
A quick glance, from the corner of your eye
will do, better if you turn perpendicular,
your left shoulder pointed in my direction.

This slicing glimpse will catch me as I
am, that shimmer of me-ness that exists
in secret, slips around the couch edge,
over the threshold between rooms, melts

into seams of wallpaper, hides in the crack
of the door before you lean into it so it clicks
shut. I am the there that is not
there when you look at me.

From: https://thirdwednesdaymagazine.org/category/poetry/

Date: 2022

By: Becky Boling (19??- )

Changes by Peggy Hammond

breezes stir. maple seeds,
miniature helicopters,
spin. oak catkins
twirl. spring
shakes itself,
brushes winter
off its shoulders.
voices and children’s
laughter float as sangria
sparkles in our glasses.
conversation quiets,
our minds still
linger months past,
when wishes were
fulfilled, when
ashes and prayers
mingled with snow
on a silent mountain.
when absence
took its place beside us.

From: https://fragmentedvoices.com/magazine/

Date: 2022

By: Peggy Hammond (19??- )

On a Day of Remembrance by Jed Myers

International Holocaust Remembrance Day, 2022

Let’s remember how they thought
they were finally cleaning things up.
Taking care of the rodent problem.
Not strange. The same way
we had the man spray downstairs
when moths had invaded the carpet.
You know how your scalp will itch
when you hear there are lice. Let’s
remember this, inheritance meant
to make our skin crawl at the chance
of a spider, a scorpion, ants.
Older than ancient. Ancestral.
Remembrance? Let it spread across
every checkpoint and wired wall,
to touch all our swatting hands.

From: https://www.rattle.com/on-a-day-of-remembrance-by-jed-myers/

Date: 2022

By: Jed Myers (1952- )

Doppelgänger by Romana Iorga

I envy the tree for growing its leaves
without guilt. For pushing roots
into soil without fear. In a parallel
world, an identical me
has already put her kids to bed
and is writing. Her house is clean.
Her dog, well-trained. Dinner
was good and nutritious. The kids
ate their veggies without complaining.
We exchange dreams sometimes.
She dreams of my life and shudders.
I dream of hers and sink into
the ground. She and I like to go
out at night and look at the moon.
Her sky is no different than mine,
but her moon glows brighter.
She speaks and her moon answers.
I speak and my moon hides
behind a cloud. We both love a good
cry, though, if you ask me, she has
little to cry about. She finds me
intolerant. I find her stuck up.
Sometimes we hate each other’s guts.
Then the moon calls and we grow
silent. She glides through her
luxuriant garden in a diaphanous
nightgown. I stomp through
dusty weeds in my boots. Her moon
sends down a shimmering rope,
pulls her upward through the branches.
My moon decides it’s time
for an eclipse. Earthbound, I am
resigned to my fate. Someone
must carry the brunt of imperfection.
Each night, like a dumb, moon-
struck beast, I show up for the task.

From: https://www.westtrestlereview.com/west_trestle_romana_iorga.html

Date: 2022

By: Romana Iorga (19??- )

Death and the Miser by Jeff Fearnside

After the painting of the same name by the Netherlandish artist Hieronymus Bosch

When death comes, it all goes:
the fine clothing,
chest of treasures,

old letters (to business
partners? illicit lovers?),
bag of money hidden

under your sheets,
armor cast off,
gauntlet at your feet, unheeded.

Death’s minions see it all.
One peers from above
the death bed’s canopy.

They scurry over and under
everything in the room,
clutching what you once clutched,

barbed tails swishing,
bat’s wings beating,
monkey faces agape.

Your one hope
is the angel behind you,
hand on your pale, bony shoulder,

eyes on the beam
of light from the high
window with the crucifix.

You only see death
gowned in bridal white
peering demurely

from behind the door,
the arrow pointed
at your narrow, wasted gut.

From: https://plumepoetry.com/death-and-the-miser/

Date: 2022

By: Jeff Fearnside (19??- )