MONK’S JOURNEY

He appears in the doorway
robed in a swirl of saffron,
worldly possessions clutched
in his delicate hands,
almond eyes squinting
through unexpected light,
pausing for one
mystical moment before
descending the stairs
from the Greyhound bus,
holding a JC Penney bag
and a white paper cup from Starbucks.

           —DB Appleton, Madison

HIGHWAY LIFE

The half-houses roll briskly down the highway
Carefully shrouded with opaque covering.
They are looking for their other half.
The bathroom can’t find the bedrooms,
The kitchen has no one to cook for.
Who lives in these houses?
Shadow shapes, paper doll thin,
Who lean against the walls and built-in furniture
Or half figures, moving in strange one-legged hip-hops?
What do they eat?
Unpopped popcorn, half a grapefruit,
Half a loaf, half and half?
And they drink “rose coffee,”
So pale you can see the rose in the bottom of the cup.

           —Fran Rall, Madison
Previously published by the Wisconsin Academy of Sciences, Arts & Letters, and Cup of Poems

HOW I LEARNED TO DROWN

They climbed up on the hull of the overturned
sailboat, a mile off shore, and waved to people
swimming at a park, who waved back thinking
they were having fun. My dad’s second cousin
with his wooden leg, his friend who wanted to
swim for help, my mother thanking God I was
not there and my father who couldn’t even float.
For months after the rescue he took lessons. I
can still see my father in his baggy trunks and
moccasins, pushing off from the pier, flailing
frantically. He could almost swim four feet. But
it didn’t matter, for he vowed he would never
go farther than where he could see the bottom
ever again. I would rather drown than live by
that philosophy I sometimes think, waving to my
family on the distant shore waving back at me.

           —John Lehman, Cambridge

IN THE MOON OF LOST OBJECTS

Somewhere in Europe
we become the touring trees
of the cosmopolitan forest
leaving parts of ourselves wherever we go.
Our daughter, Miriam,
leaves her shoes in Inverness
and her toesocks in Paris.
My wallet and I unwillingly part company
at Paris Gare du Nord Station.
I leave my French beret in a rental car
returning from New Lanark.
At Edinburgh Botanical, brigand pigeons
set upon my lunch;
and at Bowness on Windermere
my heart is stolen by a mute swan.
I offer a piece of what I wear on my sleeve
and the impertinent beast grabs it all.

           —Sandra Lindow, Eau Claire
Previously published by Fables

WISH YOU WERE(N’T) HERE!

Hi Mom, Hi Dad—
Just a few lines to say
(Stevie threw up on the MapQuest directions,
Jacie lost her retainer out the window,
Del’s all snotty with a sinus infection,
and a flat cost sixty-five bucks for the tow)
we made it just fine.
We’re having
(trouble with the cabin reservation,
allergic reactions to black fly bites,
thirty hours of daily precipitation,
and the dog double-dipped for ticks and mites)
a good time.
Here’s the number: (911) 911-9110,
drop us a dime.
Love, Wanda (go home)
Jack and kids

           —Maryam Dachniwskyj, Pewaukee

AN EMPTY SEASON

“Fecundity,” you said, “is overrated.”
We huffed ankle deep in sand,
each step a labor up the dune
to where the desert loomed
shimmering and still. Land and sky,
woven in yellow, tan, red,
faded to mauve and gray
before I answered. “We could adopt.”
We studied our ripening shadows,
born of a burnished moon,
describing our sterile outline
in dry, ochre tones. You nodded.
Wind lifted the infertile grains
you sifted through your fingers,
laying them in my lap
as if to ask forgiveness.

           —Bill McConnell, Verona

LETTER OF THANKS TO OUR BRITISH TOURIST AGENT

Right! Quite right of you folks
Sending us first to his bardship’s digs on Avon!
Cheers, too, for our Bronte lope, Yorkshirewise,
Heathwise, pudding and parsonage, in our Wellies.
In London HMS Self-Righteous was a jewel at her Thames dockslip,
And Chris Wren’s church fairly shone gold at midday eventide.

Much loved elsewhere by all of us were:
At Yuoministershire—Yum!—the Thackeray Whackeray,
The Leeds Museum of Leers with its Lady Di-scapes,
Filch Haunts, Louts House and the Fritterage, all at Idlehands,
The Phewery (recently sprayed) at Winsome-Winds-at-the-Slops.

Question:
Where exactly are The Royal Psychoses in the Vicky & Albert Museum?

Suggestion:
Daisy-chain Mews, off Adulterer’s Close in Bloomsbury, seems overrun
With in-heat cats.

We liked the new Brit food-launch—quease pie, umbrage aspic,
And cress mirage on faux-futon—but were less taken with
Wee child shanks on honeyed russets.

Home now, we hear the Browning strain:
Oh to be in Merry-Old, and whoever wakes there
Sees splendorous fields of hawthorn envy, lemon’s eye bane,
Great-aunt’s pique, and, from the nearest vicarage parapets
Cascading veils of Thatcher-snort.

           —Richard Swanson, Madison