Sierra DeMulder

While digging through piles
of chalky, tired clothing at the
Goodwill on University Avenue,
I lost the last thing he gave me—
somewhere between the awkward
bride’s maid dresses and pit-stained
blouses. It was a birthday gift
from Berlin: a wallet made
from recycled milk cartons.
Once I realized it was missing,
I frantically searched the aisles
I had just so patiently excavated.
My eyes begged to see it’s white corners
hidden under a winter hat or foolishly
laying at the foot of the shoe rack.
I looked for an hour; cried
in the car, as if we had celebrated
my birthday together—as if
he hadn’t left a long time ago,
before any of this clothing was worn.

where should i tour?

brainstorming list:

nuyorican
oneonta
albany
danbury, ct
richmond
seattle
tuscon
omaha
detroit
chicago
atlanta
santa cruz
new paltz
denver
philly
cantab?
albuquerque?
madison??
anywhere in florida??

*falls over…

the distance between us
tastes like unripened fruit
unreached potential

i want your last name.

The Quiet World

In an effort to get people to look
into each other's eyes more,
the government has decided to allot
each person exactly one hundred
and sixty-seven words, per day.

When the phone rings, I put it
to my ear without saying hello.
In the restaurant I point
at chicken noodle soup. I am
adjusting well to the new way.

Late at night, I call my long
distance lover and proudly say
I only used fifty-nine today.
I saved the rest for you.

When she doesn't respond, I know
she's used up all her words
so I slowly whisper I love you,
thirty-two and a third times.
After that, we just sit on the line
and listen to each other breathe.

 	-- Jeffrey McDaniel

of all the hearts i have discharged,
you were my first wooden bullet—
the only one to enter me and explode when shot
down. i still find splinters of your voice
on my neck.

1969

My brother enlisted
in the winter. I pitched
for the sixth grade Indians
and coach said
I was almost as good
as Johnny. My mother
fingered rosary beads,
watched Cronkite say
and that’s the way it is.
I smoked my first
and last cigarette. My father
kept his promise,
washed Johnny’s Mustang
every weekend. Brenda Whitson
taught me how to French kiss
in her basement. Sundays
we went to ten o’clock Mass,
dipped hands in holy water,
genuflected, walked down
the aisle and received
Communion. Cleon Jones
got down on one knee, caught
the last out and the Mets
won the World Series.
Two white-gloved Marines
rang the bell, stood
on our stoop. My father
watched their car
pull away, then locked
the wooden door. I went
to our room, climbed
into the top bunk,
pounded a hardball
into his pillow. My mother
found her Bible, took
out my brother’s letters,
put them in the pocket
of her blue robe. My father
started Johnny’s car,
revved the engine
until every tool
hanging in the garage
shook.

- Tony Gloeggler

1999
by Kevin Gonzalez

We were driving to your funeral
& our father was not crying
because he has a way
of tying ribbons around grief.
It was the year we learned
the piercing that prefaces the blood
holds the most delicate of darknesses.
Then it was the year we opened
all our faucets & waited for the sea
to bleed to death. Then it was the year
we set fire to your mitt. Then, suddenly
the year we started to believe
every thorn was just a bridge.
Then the year all we talked about
was boxing. Then the year
my stomach hurt all year, & then
the year no one spoke of you.

If there were an antonym for suicide
we could all choose when to be born.
I would have been born after that day
so I could not remember you.
So my fingers would stop pointing
at all the things that aren’t there.