Poetry by Jacquie Burckley in the style of Linda Pastan:
The Seven Heavenly Virtues
CHARITY
With still eight
days remaining
before my next cheque,
I eat an open-faced
sandwich and give him
the rest. Better for
two to be a bit
hungry than one to
wither while I
hug my stomach, satiated
from wheat and beans.
HUMILITY
Say you are sorry.
This is not the hill,
not the mountain,
not the star
on which
you want to die.
I will always
ask questions.
TEMPERANCE
As I receive the
laminated menu
sticky with
something, I
dismiss the antipasti
I could eat
before I eat.
On the right side
lists the desserts
I decline to eat
after I eat.
CHASTITY
You tempt me
with your smile
and indigo
eyes, but
I refuse
your advances,
for loyal to my
husband am I.
It has only ever been,
and only ever will be,
he whom I accept
into me.
DILIGENCE
Steady, earnest, and
energetic effort;
persevering application.
Mid-14c. directly from
Latin diligentia for the noun
and diligens for the adjective.
In modern day, we see
“diligence” evolve to mean
“loving, attentive,
applying effort.”
KINDNESS
Your hair reminds
me of the inner
spiral in your ear.
What kind of
orchids are those?
Flashes of green
dart in their eyes
as they stand by
your side. Let
me hold your
spirals back.
PATIENCE
Though you
deny me, I will
persist.
Though you
break my trust,
I forgive.
Though you
spoil my kindness,
I will be kind.
Though you
exploit my words.
I give them freely.
Candled on both ends
my mental endurance
depletes, yet I endure,
with the humdrum
of front truck wheels.
Mother
I am daughter
of none but
mother of some:
the iron-speckled
toddlers sit
patiently, waiting
to be adored, waiting
to be fed, waiting
to be plucked so
plump and pink,
bright and crisp.
Before the grave
and the rains
we waited.
Thumbing
nipples, I
bide my time.
I tried to coax
you out; established
a tonic, trotted shoeless
next to your
basset. You
arrived on that
torrid, wet morning
unbeknownst to me
you would leave in
three short nights. Was
it the music? Did
my crunchy steps
impede your purple
growth? The love
which soaks the
ground around you
pools at your base,
unable (unwilling?)
to seep through.
Understand I
will not lose you
to love again.
I will try a sweeter
formula, or I will
cut you down
myself– silver shears
buried in the garden.
Shelby
I watched my grandfather
at the market talk his
way into getting Haddock;
head-on in manner and fish.
He declines the help of
the man eager to earn
extra coin, because he
‘probably hasn’t yet
warshed his hands of
Birmingham.” He
fastened his tweed
flat cap, tossed his
smoke over his
shoulder, and waited
for the buggy, minty
breath to add a new
element to the world.
Thirteen years have
passed and I bring
my son to the market,
preparing to bring him
to the slaughterhouse.
Boy won’t heal in time
for the derby. I won’t
make him shoot today.
Poetry by Chrissy Schreiber in the style of Mahmoud Darwish:
When My Baba Met Death
My Baba once told me that when he
passed over the hill, he stopped fearing death.
This life, he said, was a gift from Allah, and when it was over,
he would go to Paradise. He would greet death
like an old friend. I asked him what that would be like.
All inky darkness? Brilliant light? When he was a boy,
my Baba imagined that there would be no one around,
just an immense void. Not a soul for miles and miles,
floating in a vast, empty-bellied sky. He would watch
his life as if through a long tunnel, familiar voices echoing
down the chamber and distorting to become even
more hauntingly beautiful. For the young, death is
a filament breaking. Each piece and part is still there, but
there’s no spark – just a hollow rattle. A small pop
when the switch flips and slowly yet somehow suddenly
you realize that nothing has happened. Later, my Baba
thought death would be loud,
like when it came for the boys on the motorcycles
or for Ummi with the guns. His friend would not show when
the keffiyeh was wrapped around his neck and pulled taut by
his own hands. In the end, death was quiet
when it came for my Baba. But he was right.
My Baba received death like an old friend.
Jugglers
You paint on a smile, swipe pink shadow
onto bloodshot eyes. You rim them
with black charcoal as if
you were made to burn.
You hide behind your bare hair and poisonous
poppy blouses. Secretly, you
wait for a sword to fall.
Or a flaming wand, a steak knife,
a bowling pin, a bowling ball.
Yearning for something.
Longing for new pigments,
you pick up a paintbrush.
Longing for new definitions,
you pick up a quill.
Rip the rainbow wig off and own
the silver strands beneath.
You were once such a little duck,
all peach fuzz
and pear skin.
Along the way, someone taught you how to be,
and you guzzled their lies straight from the spout.
Strike a match and set piles and piles
and piles of paper aflame.
Sharp as Razor Blades
Icy toes on linoleum floors,
sharp as razor blades.
Wrap them up in plush,
but they cut right through, even
scratchy knit not holding them. It warms
the body, slows breath
and lowers lids – suffocates,
muffles sound, and life
seeps out of her eyes and
her ears and her nose
and her mouth to the rhythm
of her heart. Bright yellow
like passion fruit and turmeric,
or sunlight, bubbling up from inside
and spilling over the edges like
a faucet left running. Water flows over
icy toes on linoleum floors,
sharp as razor blades.
(Read) Between the Vines 