WATCHING ALYSA LIU SKATE

by Tammy Smith

It’s impossible not to yell
“That’s what I’m f**king talking about!”
knowing she nailed it.

High above the ice,
even the Quad God
can’t hide his grin.

Nothing compares
to the joy of watching
her land a triple flip.

The globe spins with that power.
Bliss like this is contagious. 
I should return to the rink. 

Dig out my old skates, 
wipe down the blades,
sharpen them. 

Leave doubt in the arena.
Lace rage tight inside leather.
Release. Rise. Glide. 

Tammy Smith is a poet and licensed clinical social worker living in Fair Lawn, New Jersey. Her poetry appears or is forthcoming in The New Verse News, Oddball Magazine, ONE ART, Grand Little Things, Paterson Literary Review, and elsewhere.

HOW SUBTLY IT HAPPENED

by William Doreski

Secretly, I slip the daylight

moon into my pocket. A crowd

has formed. As I approach,

stainless things clatter. A cop

 

kneels on a neck. A sigh kites

into the trees and deflates.

The cop looks too dispassionate

for this lifetime. The man

 

on the ground no longer speaks.

The stainless things rain down

with naked blades twittering.

I ease the moon from my pocket

 

and compare it to the face

of the cop and of the man

he’s stifling. None of these three

expressions can tell me the time.

William Doreski lives in Peterborough, New Hampshire. He has taught at several colleges and universities. His most recent book of poetry is Mist in Their Eyes (2021). He has published three critical studies, including Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors. His essays, poetry, fiction, and reviews have appeared in various journals.