Marie Howe: The Gate

I had no idea that the gate I would step through

to finally enter this world
would be the space my brother’s body made. He was
a little taller than me: a young man
but grown, himself by then,
done at twenty-eight, having folded every sheet,
rinsed every glass he would ever rinse under the cold
and running water.
This is what you have been waiting for, he used to say to me.
And I’d say, What?
And he’d say, This—holding up my cheese and mustard sandwich.
And I’d say, What?
And he’d say, This, sort of looking around.

Ada Limón: Glimpse

In the bathroom our last
cat comes up to me and purrs
even without touch she purrs
and there are times I can
hold her when no one else
can hold her. She once
belonged to my husband's
ex-girlfriend who is no longer
of the earth and what I've
never told him is that some
nights when I touch her
I wonder if the cat is feeling
my touch or just remembering
her last owner's touch. She
is an ancient cat and prickly.
When we are alone I sing
full throated in the empty house
and she meows and mewls
like we've done this before
but we haven't done this before.

Brian Bilston: Unhappy Birthday to Me

It's important to share, or so I've been taught,
to show kindness to others, to be a good sport.
But all of those teachings have taken a bump -
for I share my birthday with Donald Trump.

For years I knew not of this dark, dreadful fate,
and with ignorant bliss I honoured the date -
but then it got hijacked, sullied, gazumped
by a self-serving bigot, a foul gibberlump.

With him, I would share an infectious disease,
a mouldy bread roll, infestations of fleas,
a romantic weekend at a toxic waste dump -
but please, not my birthday, Mr. Tangerine Chump.

Alternative dates he's welcome to try -
12th Febtember, 33rd July.
But 14th June? In a lake, take a jump
and find a new date, you deranged sewage pump.

Siri Liv Myhrom: In Praise of Small Kindnesses

Today’s is a soft meditation

in praise of the enormousness 

of small kindnesses. 

Like the café worker who waved enthusiastically 

to my father as he walked in the door of the coffee shop 

like she was expecting him, 

like he was a regular in this hipster enclave 

instead of a septuagenarian 

in khaki shorts and white tennis shoes. 

He met me here on my workday 

so I could help him format a document — 

something he couldn’t figure out how to do at home 

no matter how many buttons he tried, 

something my mother always did for him 

in the decades after he gave up his trusty typewriter. 

So he arrived at the coffee shop 

        vulnerable and exasperated in that way 

        that only technology can make us feel: 

        like slow, dependent children — and 

sorely missing my mother. 

Like the barista who didn’t blink 

when he ordered his coffee the wrong way, 

when he said la-TAY instead of LAH-tey, 

who took his order from our table 

as if we were in a sit-down restaurant 

and she was our waiter, 

who smiled the whole time like a halo of warm light, 

softening the space everywhere, 

who made him feel like he belonged. 

You cannot know how those small gestures matter, 

unless you are him, 

unless you are me, watching, 

unless you see his shoulders relax, 

        in that way that we can do only 

        when we feel safe and seen enough to let go, 

and his eyes dampen, the tiny liquid pools held in at the rims, 

barely noticeable, as he smiles and says, 

She always knew how to do this for me. For years she did this. 

She would have been 69 today. How I miss her.

Veszprémi Szilveszter: Apám meggyilkolása

Nem számít, mit gondol rólam az apám,
aki szerint a szobában ücsörgésből nem lesz pénz.
Aki ennyi idősen már öt éve dolgozott,
és a végigdolgozott életével a háta mögött
el sem tud képzelni mást.
Nem az van, hogy nem érti a szavakat, amiket használok,
de meg sem hallgat. A jövőmről meg a jelenemről beszélni
csak locsogás, és az apám nem az a locsogó fajta.
Csak az elvágott köbméter fákból ért,
és én még nem írtam egy köbméter jó verset.
Öt jó vers. Kábé.
Ez az életművem, apa.
Erre alapozom a jövőmet. Ezt nem lehet neki elmondani.
Nem beszélünk versekről, erről a versről sem,
hogy megvallom magunkat. Megölöm. Rituálisan.
Az igazi apámat, aki egy évben született az Iskola a határonnal
és a Barbie babával, de nem tudja, hogy van ilyen apagyilkosság,
de ha tudná is, megsértődne, pedig ez
nem az igazi apákat szokta érinteni.
Az apámnak semmi köze a verseimhez,
nem kell várnom tőle sem empátiát, sem toleranciát, sem elfogadást.
Nincs látnivaló erre. A következő állomás a szobán
és a vershelyzeteken kívül. Bár ott sincs semmi,
amire büszkének lehetne lenni.

Major Petra: Hála gyakorlat

Fejemen van:
elég fül,
elég orr,
elég száj.
Meg/elég/szem.

Mary Karr: Easter at Al Qaeda Bodega

At the gold speckled counter, my pal in white apron—

index finger tapping his Arabic paper,
where the body count dwarfs
the one in my Times—announces,
You’re killing my people.


But in Hell’s Kitchen, even the Antichrist
ought to have coffee—one cream
and two sugars. Blessings
upon you, he says, and means it.