Arms (Dave Bronson)

I wrote this after a woman was murdered in the town next to me. I live in a small town and the eventually successful search took two years. The search for the killer, in such a small community, was pretty awful, and something that I won't forget.

I search for the arms
of strangers,
of friends,
of my family.

People pass by me
and their eyes drop
to my arms
before they meet
my face again.

They found a woman's body
hands, feet and face
burned. Naked
tossed into the woods.

Her killer
still unidentified.

They asked for tips.
She struggled
they said,
her violator may have been wounded.
Scratches and bruises may still be visible
on the forearms of her attacker.

So I find myself
staring down
at the pale arms
of men,
of the unkempt elderly man at Honey Farms,
of the teenage gas attendant who never quite
meets my eyes,
but also
at the father of my daughter's afternoon playdate,
the teenage sons of my neighbors
and at an evening barbecue, my own father,
questioning against doubt
what they are capable of.

And when I am alone,
even though I know,
in the mornings
I look down
at my own arms
unmarked.

And still, I check
twice.

One Boy Told Me (Naomi Shihab Nye)

Music lives inside my legs.
It’s coming out when I talk.

I’m going to send my valentines
to people you don’t even know.

Oatmeal cookies make my throat gallop.

Grown-ups keep their feet on the ground
when they swing. I hate that.

Look at those 2 o’s with a smash in the middle—
that spells good-bye.

Don’t ever say “purpose” again,
let’s throw the word out.

Don’t talk big to me.
I’m carrying my box of faces.
If I want to change faces I will.

Yesterday faded
but tomorrow’s in BOLDFACE.

When I grow up my old names
will live in the house
where we live now.
I’ll come and visit them.

Only one of my eyes is tired.
The other eye and my body aren’t.

Is it true all metal was liquid first?
Does that mean if we bought our car earlier
they could have served it
in a cup?

There’s a stopper in my arm
that’s not going to let me grow any bigger.
I’ll be like this always, small.

And I will be deep water too.
Wait. Just wait. How deep is the river?
Would it cover the tallest man with his hands in the air?

Your head is a souvenir.

When you were in New York I could see you
in real life walking in my mind.

I’ll invite a bee to live in your shoe.
What if you found your shoe
full of honey?

What if the clock said 6:92
instead of 6:30? Would you be scared?

My tongue is the car wash
for the spoon.

Can noodles swim?

My toes are dictionaries.
Do you need any words?

From now on I’ll only drink white milk
on January 26.

What does minus mean?
I never want to minus you.

Just think—no one has ever seen
inside this peanut before!

It is hard being a person.

I do and don’t love you—
isn’t that happiness?

First Kiss (April Lindner)

This collision of teeth, of tongues and lips,
is like feeling for the door
in a strange room, blindfolded.
He imagines he knows her
after four dates, both of them taking pains
to laugh correctly, to make eye contact.
She thinks at least this long first kiss
postpones the moment she'll have to face
four white walls, the kitchen table,
its bowl of dried petals and nutmeg husks,
the jaunty yellow vase with one jaunty bloom,
the answering machine's one bloodshot eye.

Spring (Dave Bronson)

Sometimes the poems that I write come fast, the words are right there. This was one of those, written a couple of years ago in March.


Everyone is concerned with
what lies deep within
the heart and soul and such things
But it is in your face
that I see you
a shallow, light-filled stream
laughing across the surface
And I am sure
your bedrock is down there
hardened and broken
but on this leafless spring morning
I am looking for the sun.

When I am Asked (Lisel Mueller)

When I am asked   

how I began writing poems,   

I talk about the indifference of nature.   

It was soon after my mother died,   

a brilliant June day,   

everything blooming.   

I sat on a gray stone bench   

in a lovingly planted garden,   

but the day lilies were as deaf   

as the ears of drunken sleepers   

and the roses curved inward.   

Nothing was black or broken   

and not a leaf fell   

and the sun blared endless commercials   

for summer holidays.   

I sat on a gray stone bench   

ringed with the ingenue faces   

of pink and white impatiens   

and placed my grief   

in the mouth of language,   

the only thing that would grieve with me.