he asks that we allow the sex to make us unrecognizable

a poem by brett eugene ralph.

Firm Against the Pattern

When I saw Charity dancing
alone in the farmhouse kitchen,
eyes closed, lips parted, held aloft
in one hand half a mango,
a gigantic butcher knife
clutched in the other—I froze
at the screen door as I always do
when I come upon someone praying.

All night I had been hitting
on the daughter of a tiny woman
orphaned by Hiroshima.
Her grandparents had been lost, and her mother
would soon be dead though no one knew
if it was the blast or the facility
she retired next to in Utah.

This was the kind of bitter irony
that made you want to burn the flag—
even if it was against the law, even
on the Fourth of July on property owned
by a Republican state senator.
Which is precisely what would happen
later, after we’d drunk the wine.

Hey, he said in one of those voices
unique to fraternity members
high on nitrous oxide, Anybody want a drink
of hundred-year-old Romanian wine?
Before we could answer, he had produced
from one of the pockets on his wheel chair
wine he meted out, so help me God,
from a Mrs. Butterworth’s bottle.

By the time that bottle made its way
around the bonfire, I was drunk
on kimonos wed to atom bombs
and motherless children left to cultivate
an excruciating beauty,
drunk on crippled tipplers
scarcely larger than dolls.
On an evening such as this, one swig
makes little difference.

Like the wine my father fashioned
out of blackberries, out of plums,
it was sweet and very strong
and it wouldn’t have taken much to turn
Mrs. Butterworth upside down
until her skirts fell and I’d forgotten
that the cloud above Nagasaki rhymes
with the flag we raised on the moon.

As I watched Charity dance, I rested
my brow against the rusty screen
and that knife and mango might have been
a bottle and a beating heart,
a bomb and a burned up baby doll,
a flag and whatever comes to mind
when you read the word forgiveness.

Closing my eyes, I extended my tongue
and pressed it firm against the pattern:
I tasted yesterday’s rain, the forgotten
carcasses of moths,
broken glances, rebel tears,
the smoke of not-so-distant fires—
all those delicate gestures
we collect and call the seasons.


Two untitled poems by carl annarummo.


you'd sit, listening
to analog's hiss, and
kitchen hiccups under
the umbrella of recovering
alcoholic pre-recorded
as a sexed up claude monet --
casemated in crinkled jewels --
asking you to perform
a whispering-clinic in
a museum of modern art


left shoulder bursitis in a sling
from filing sheet music in
a two-tier filing cabinet prolific
in its ability to jeopardize the alphabet
and get you astride with jazz-
pile in hand, wondering if
you'd ever spoon Miles Davis
and if the preventative measures
against his violence would include
matching windbreakers
accustomed to screwheads