Tuesday, November 14, 2017

Tuesday poem #241 : Ryan Eckes : chase scene



good luck in all your future endeavors, types the middle manager
chewing on a slim jim. back at home we’re rinsing off the isms. it’s
the wknd, and the middle class are out volunteering for the one
percent. we grow free w/out them, though they keep calling. feel
them push monday into sunday, friday into saturday. one percent
of one smidgen of a dead cockroach’s heart casts its vote, finally,
for the middle class. can freedom be a pigeon? if it kicks you the
right way. if it spits on your shoe and laughs in your face. if in your
neighbor’s face you look long enough to lose your mask, and you
feel it fly away, feel it shit on a boss—any boss—then yes.


Ryan Eckes is a poet who lives in South Philadelphia. His books include Valu-Plus and Old News (Furniture Press 2014, 2011). You can read some of his poems in Tripwire, The Brooklyn Rail, Slow Poetry in America Newsletter, Supplement, Public Pool, Whirlwind and on his blog. He is the recipient of a 2016 Pew Fellowship in the Arts.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan

Tuesday, November 07, 2017

Tuesday poem #240 : Rebecca Salazar : A death preceded by three auguries




i.

In your last week, when they say you might stop eating, you eat
twenty seven watermelons whole. The brothers ogle:
pink juice parsing the lines of your face and depositing
carbuncles, sugar gems on your cracked lips and chin,
like the starched stars that web across summer fruit rinds.


ii.

The hospice halls heavy and cloying with jasmine and rose.
We are immersed. After lights-out, the sisters sneak
from the guest room, both drunk on perfume more viscous
than honey. Their shoes syrup-stick to the floor before
they reach your bed. They sway, sick with the brilliant scent.


iii.

Morning sickness wakes the mother, hot sleep wicking down
the hard sphere of her belly. A blue votive flame
draws her to eyes to the phone at her bedside, the number
unknown, cool voice calling for warmth just as you
signal sounds like her name in your tapering sleep.



Rebecca Salazar is the author of Guzzle (Anstruther), and an editor for The Fiddlehead and icehouse poetry. Her poetry appears in Prism, Minola Review, and Cosmonauts Avenue, and her non-fiction in The Puritan and Partisan Magazine. Originally from Sudbury, Ontario, she is currently a PhD candidate and Vanier scholar in New Brunswick.

the Tuesday poem is curated by rob mclennan