Independence
Who Are You?
by Adam Jeffries Schwartz
At the deli this morning
an elderly woman asked for a cigarette.
I looked up from the want ads.
I saw her with a bun of hair and a lace dress—
waltzing before the war.
I saw her husband's waxed moustache.
I saw her sewing what was left
of the jewels into the lining of a dress. Then
I saw what was left of her
and gave her a cigarette.
She put it into an ivory holder
and waited.
"Who are you?" She said, exhaling smoke.
"I have no idea.
sorry.
I'm completely lost.
She smiled as she leaned into me,
"But not for long. You will give birth to yourself."
"What happens then?"
"Oh, the usual things:
war
famine
plague
rampant stupidity, also
—for you—
I bequeath my wings.
You can come close
or soar away
as you see fit.
Thanks for the cigarette."
She kissed me
on both cheeks and left.
Hostage
by Adam Jeffries Schwartz
Maybe it's love, maybe
it's habit.
After all this time
it's hard
to tell.
If you don't love me
—cut me loose.
Maybe
he didn't hear me.
It's hard
to hear
myself
through the muzzle.
A Crown of White
by Patrick Hayes
My love, it's Spring again, here in this place
You love so well, that loves you ever still,
The pear trees blooming white, and grass again
Shoots forth from soil lain cracked and brown so long.
I hear the birdsong, silent when the snows
Had covered all the land, now sweetly ring
From branches and from thicket, morning's joy
That greets the dawn you mirror when you rise.
It's Spring again, upon this world grown grey
Where cynics rule and gods are held in scorn--
Where such as you and I, who bend our knees
In worship, face the laughter and the sneers,
From even those whose God we claim to share,
For we are not as they. Our candles bright,
Our incense and our golden cups they shun,
And name us heathen in their haughty pride.
But here within our grove, beneath the sun
I kneel with you, and for you, unashamed,
To bow my head, and kiss this ground, and sing
In ancient words that men no longer keep
For fear of what is old, and what has passed.
Now I myself am old, my eyes are tired
From all these years of war and blood and strife;
I leave my sword upon the pathway stones.
Beneath the gate, for sully not this place
I will with such an instrument of death,
Though blessed in service to the Holy Cause;
My shield, with silver Cross two-armed upon
Its battered crimson steel I lay against
The gate itself, to rest as I may not
While still I breathe; my lance, red pennant blown
By breezes swift, across my saddle lays;
My dappled steed I tether far beyond
So that I bring within this sacred ring
No thing of war except my armor, weight
Of mail and leather heavy on my chest,
And these two hands, which can so softly touch--
Which kill, when driven by my weary heart,
On order, or for Right. So very tired
I am of war, of death, so many deaths....
I rise, and seek the bush you planted here,
So long ago, it seems, some former Age:
White roses, sweet and new; their thorny stems
Yield now to me, as nine I gently take,
And with these fingers, old and hard and scarred,
I weave them in a crown, as once I held
To place upon your brow, the day we wed,
As I have every Spring since made for you.
This crown I carry in my arms, and sigh
In sorrow, looking at the sky so blue--
And lay it at your grave, where rest your feet,
Your head, where lies my joy and all my soul
Until the night when I am lain beside
This mound, grass green and young upon its face.
I know you pray for me, and so I wait
Here in this weakened mortal shell for you.
Aidan Turns 4 on the Beach
by Chris Patterson
It was shrill.
Somewhere between laughing
and screaming, he sounded
like a pony that never knew a
circle walk,
just wilderness and freedom.
Here, where the foam forms
as the wave expends itself,
before rushing back to eat the next,
stealing its thunder,
there wasn't a thing coming
between his thirty-six inch
quivering frame and the
poignant power of the Pacific.
His retreat from the crash
and the spray are calculated.
Do not dare
to hold his hand,
the waves are his.
Accosting them with
tightly balled fists and
emphatic one-footed stomps,
is this 4-year-old's triumphant
expression of
his recently revealed
independence.
The Un-Nesting
by Elizabeth Wawrzyniak
My mother today bought me cups,
Cups and plates and two bowls to
Eat cereal, or more likely ice cream,
In when I move out from the house
Of my childhood. Is this what makes
A house a home, these few things
That have always seemed so simple,
So uncomplicated? Now they are
A symbol of the spreading of wings,
The full-bloom of ending adolescence
And the first steps into that state
Of aloneness, adulthood realized.
The plates and the cups are the
Only things, I think, that keep my
Mother from falling into weeping at
My impending goodbye. But even
If she were to begin and leak wet
Tears while standing in the middle
Of the aisle, she could dry them off
On the fluffy new hand-towels that
Are sitting in the cart, cushioning
The plastic plates with softness;
Or she could take the large bath
Ones and cover her head, hide the
Shame of every mother mourning
The realization that all children must
One day leave home. But still I
Think she'd rather wind them tight
And bind my hands with them,
Ensuring that I will stay, at least
A little while, one more last night.
But she neither cries nor twists the
Towels to tie me closer; instead we
Slowly make our way through the
Store, both talking and not talking
About the room that will soon be
Empty, the vacant seat at the table.
And thinking about that unused seat,
My mother returns and searches for
The extra silverware, so that all her
Years of teaching will not be forgotten;
As if without her presence, I will regress
So far back, losing the ability to use
Familiar utensils, knives and forks, and
Even the spoons that I will let her think
Are used for cereal, and not ice cream.