Whitnee Coy, A Limb Outgrowing a Weathered Tree

The Separation

Before they pulled her wet-slicked being

from my numbed body, they prepped us

we may not hear her cry.

Minutes before, her heart rate dived

to a faint tap & her 3lb body

had stopped moving.

No matter if I had changed position,

sipped chilled water, or however deep

they dug the ultrasound wand into me;

her life-filled body had become lifeless.

As my body rocked back &

forth like a swing in the wind, they carved

through 7 layers of my body.

I shivered from the coldness of metal tools

slicing thick tissue & the nurse to my right

gabbled everything they were doing, reasons why, &

I couldn’t hear a thing. Only thoughts of how

my 7-month-old baby that had grown a part of me
may not scream, cry, feel, or be alive.

My husband rested his hand on my hairnet

& soon we heard little bleats, a wet lamb

dropped in a pasture left to survive.

In a moment, we became two entities

left to laugh, wail, & feel the world’s aches

separate.

Further details

Dagne Forrest, Un / Becoming

Unbuttered

The Hungarian mathematician

Paul Erdös wasted no time,

dispensed with niceties. Each

letter or note began this way.

"I am in Australia.

Tomorrow I leave

for Hungary. Let K

be the largest integer..."

A mathematical nomad, he'd

awaken his revolving hosts --

mischievous child, declaring his

mind open, problems to solve.

Expecting his bread to be

buttered for him while he

devoted the entirety of his

consciousness to mathematics.

What if I -- mother, partner,

workhorse, household

glue and scaffolding -

were to simply write:

"We're out of butter. Don't

forget your homework. Let K

be the absolute minimum of

peace and quiet needed to..."

(Even the cats creeping round

every time I grab the tin opener

make it impossible for lunch

to be a time for the quiet idea.)

Let the unwashed dishes stand

for the uncharted landscape I've

made my destination now. Let

the unpaid bills drift crisply

into an impassable stasis. Let

unanswered texts and calls

become the discordant music of

a fast retreating universe, the

constant accretion of trivial

tasks the snowy static on the dial.

The notebooks piled at my feet

a signal -- my mind open to

something I need to explore

without interruption. Let this

be something I never have to explain,

along with this unbuttered bread.

Further details

John Savoie, Sehnsucht

Dog Parade

     Oh brave new world

     that has such [dogs] in it!

       —Shakespeare (mostly)

Come boxers and bichôns

and all the breeds between,

with your people on leashes

come to the Dog Parade.

Come long-legged danes                                       

and teacups in purses,

and we’ll wag and sniff

in costumes and capes.

Come corgis and doodles,

jack russells and newfies—

oh barkevious day—

pup-pup-purrah!

Then back home we go,

as lolling tongues taste

the driven wind, the victory

lap of our Dog Parade.

Further details

Elaine Sexton, Site Specific

Last Night in the Country

for Louise Fishman (1939–2021)

The painter posted a picture of a dark sky

with a dark tree in it. The caption read:

“last night in the country.” A statement

that is also a question. Early, in quarantine,

she made tiny abstract paintings, dashed

at her dining room table each night.

Did she mean it was her last night

in the country before returning to her

workspace in town? Or, did she mean this

was a picture she had taken last night,

and not the night before? And not

during the day. Did she mean she

was leaving the country, this country,

her body, her head, her family, and this,

a picture of her last night as

an American? She did not leave

the country, this country, with travel

severely restricted. She did not go

anywhere out of this world that day,

that night, but, maybe, in paint, in and

out of her head, in and out of her hand,

in and out of her house, in and out of

her body, her lover’s, her pet’s, her fields,

her knowing.

Further details