galveston 1977
our first spring break
we shared a beach house
though it was april
it was chilly and we saw only
puffy dowagers in bathing caps
enormous dull yellow dogs
we tapped our typewriters
sang wistful pop and roasted hens
traced the surf for hours
fizzy suds between toes
you composed plays and i
my poetry found a glass jar
for frail wild flowers
that reminded you
of your dads funeral
we collaborated on goofy
poems nobody cries
when a jellyfish dies
you looked funny first thing
in the morning white
white jockey shorts horn
rimmed glasses maybe like
jesus i had no idea
40 years later that week
would tear into me
like a cyclone when i heard you
breathing as we slept you were
my brother my only brother
Christopher Soden
To my friend, Billy
Billy, I call you by your nick-name
like you know we’re just kids
at heart. And here we are
in media vita, sitting on
the edge of the old pond
next to each other on a warm
afternoon in June, with you
digging with toesies for fresh
water clams, disturbing the
water’s blue sky with ripples.
Fishing is something that feels
like old familiar handling
though we remind each other
that we haven’t done it since we
were kids. Oh, it was you Billy
who caught the pickerel. I brought
him in with my net and grabbed
his slimy body with my firm fingers
careful not to get spiked by his
spines, worrying that he’d run out
of breath ere I’d torn the hook out.
Then toss him back and pray
he’d come to. With a flip
of his tail he’s gone.
The sky moves along, we
look at each other and feel
we’d best move it along too.
Oh, could it really be a bit of
embarrassment over a silly fish,
or a little self-conscious innocence?
Hours later, on the car trip back
to Kingston, I’m still relishing
my smelly fingers.
Richard Arnold
You’re in the Taco Bell Parking Lot With a Handsome Butch
And he won’t reach over to release
the tension you hold in your shoulders,
playing a tune of
obliviousness to a major conversational chord.
He won’t tell you he loves you,
but you’re sure he meets your eyes as
a bean burrito is passed towards, to,
you. He sings a lovers praise in the same swift
movement as a pat on the back, a linger if
crowding your ears like cotton. If you manhandled
a title bigger than the crunchwrap supreme
you’re holding
to the ground like you’ve seen that handsome
butch do to other butches, sweat glistening
from a phase-of-moon face.
You’re in the Taco Bell parking lot with a handsome
butch, hands stained with dust
from the cracked shell, pieces falling like
snowflakes. He offers you a napkin and it
lands in your lap
as gentle as a kiss
Lydia Venus Knowles
