TO A CHORUS OF TEARS

by tom bauer

It seems inevitable his eyes would look like that
singing that song, effulgent with yearning
for things lost, as the river weaves towards
the past. Reminds me of cartoon eyebrows,
pointed in an inverted ‘V’, like a tent,
anguished peaks over wounded disks, singing
what might be the saddest song ever made.

An invisible step leads to this next question,
on foot, an actual physical object
moving in space, in the moment of space,
not merely that moment witnessed onscreen,
a moment now in the past, outside this one,
this moment here with the keyboard, the echo,
the cat on the radiator nesting his head.

Are we free? As time waves out, are we free?
Free of the pain, the breath, the trees and light?
For it seems we are not free on earth, to choose
to run or fight, to give or take, we are
in moments welded to our choices,
fixed outside freedom, choosing what we must.

So are we free, then, when we die? Is that it?

tom bauer lives in montreal with his sons and plays boardgames.

JOY IN THE TIME OF COVID

by Rebecca Leet

“Joy of Life,” a painting by Alexandra Romano.

Joy has deep, soft texture these days,

like going barefoot on a carpet so lush

you almost feel you’re walking on air.

Its sound is soft, too—no brass bands,

 

no clashing cymbals. More like sweet air

passing through spring leaves. Its color

is the wash of a water-color painting—

nothing bold. To claim joy feels slightly selfish

 

but how can I feel other when—as I write—

all whom I love are healthy and those dearest

I can hold with my eyes—un-Zoomed—

and with my arms. I cradle my granddaughter

 

and inhale her infant perfume, draw each daughter

hard against my breasts. Randomly, a quiver

of Covid concern causes pause until—

like warm sun on my face in winter—

 

time dissolves into the eternity of now

and I breathe in the joy of the moment.

 

Rebecca Leet has been writing poetry for five years since retiring from the media-policy-politics world of Washington, DC. Her first book of poetry is Living With the Doors Wide Open. She has been published in Canary, Passager, Bourgeon, and elsewhere.

IF

by Jasmine Kitses

Photo by RYAN REMIORZ/THE CANADIAN PRESS via The Globe and Mail (Canada)

If taking a nap means
                                    weeping
if the whole sky
            lets go of its corners
if you feel empty
        for no reason
full
                                for no reason—


if we could
let ourselves
be riveted
to this          
very moment


Jasmine Kitses is a poet from San Francisco.