archives vol.56

Volume 56 (2011)

Linda Arntzenius
Lisa Baron
Kaye Bartholomew
Joan E. Bauer
Susan Gerardi Bello
Paul Bernstein
Rick Black
Elizabeth Bodien
Adele Bourne
John Setliffe Bourne
Eloise Bruce
Colin Campbell
Robert Carnevale
Enriqueta Carrington
Vida Chu
Jin Cordaro
Marcia Windress Coward
Barbara Crooker
Ann Curran
Wieslaw Czyzewski
Elizabeth Danson
Lucille Lang Day
Jessica de Koninck
Emari DiGiorgio

Juditha Dowd
Carolyn Foote Edelmann
Alan Elyshevitz
Anna Evans
Gregg Friedberg
Gail Gaspar
Danita Geltner
Gail Fishman Gerwin
Gladys Goldberg
Patricia Goodrich
Jonathan Greenhause
Ken Griggs
Luray Gross
Therese Halschied
Pat Hardigree
Lois Marie Harrod
Penny Harter
David A. Heinlein
Eric Heller
Jean Hollander
Philip Holmes
Ruth Holzer
Winifred Hughes
Brad Johnson
Charles Johnson
Hank Kalet
Marie Kane
Vasiliki Katsarou
Deda Kavanaugh
David Keller
Adele Kenny
Don Kloss
Marsha Kroll
Lavinia Kumar

Gina Larkin
John Larkin
Howard Lieberman
Betty Lies

Doc Long

Joseph Longino
Joanne Lowery
Bruce A. Lowery
Rice Lyons
Mira Martin-Parker
Susan Maurer
John McDermott
Jane McKinley
Judith McNally
Judy Rowe Michaels
Peter E. Murphy
Bruce W. Niedt
Emily Nguyen
Sharon Olson
Kathe L. Palka
Carlos Hernández Peña
Dawn Potter
Wanda S. Praisner
Christopher Presfield
Elizabeth Raby
Jane Rawlings
Susan Rooke
Robert Rosenbloom
Laura Ross
Russell Rowland
Michele Russo
Hayden Saunier
Penelope Scambly Schott
Nancy Scott
Dave Seter
Norma Voorhees Sheard
Evie Shockley
Hal Sirowitz
Louis F. Slee
Elizabeth Anne Socolow
Jill Stein
D.E. Steward
Maxine Susman
Shanti S. Tangri
Mark Terrill
Ethan Tinkler
Bill Van Buskirk
Marty Walsh
S.K. Walsh
BJ Ward
Arlene Weiner
Irene Willis
David W. Worrell
Zyllah Zala
Sander Zulauf

John Bourne / At the Haiku Convention

Short poets scurry about
like ants on solitary errands.

Each carries a tiny packet—
a moonbeam here, a cricket there,
always careful to follow the rules:
one-two-three, epiphany!

Joseph Longino / Ghost Song

In June 2009 archaeologists unearthed in Hohle Fels,
a cavern in Germany, the world’s oldest musical instrument,
crafted 35,000 years ago in the depths of the last ice age.

From egg, to bird, to bone: I sing again.
Surprised, I died. Fire scorched, teeth tore;
my wing bone—why that one I came to know—
saved, hollowed, drilled, notched, and scored.

Flames leap, and on low walls shapes dance.
Drums beat, lips press, fingers caress,
breath lifts me up, I soar once more,
I am the bird become the flute, the song.

Lavinia Kumar / Wedding, Udaipur

Eighteen and just home
from lunch with girlfriends
the marriage seemed distant
but now it’s night, the pre-wedding
ritual of drawing henna flower patterns
on all ladies hands continues, and though
there is food, laughter, chatter

there’s no mention about tomorrow night
not even from my sister while she
and mother anoint my hands and arms
with scented oil, push many small red and gold
glass bangles up my forearms, while we sit on the floor
as we must we women, but tomorrow
I’ll be lying down

though first I’ll sit alone in the big room
listen to the wedding band and ceremony
outside, the money thrown about, cheers
for the groom arriving on a white horse,
finally he’ll sit beside me, our eyes down,
guru will chant ritual prayers, throw coconut milk,
rice, garlands, I’ll wear my new red sari, gold necklace,
anklets, nose-ring,
we’ll join threads
I know it all:
walk around the fire

my single life burning
buried in flower petals
leaving me
beside him always.

Sharon Olson / Genealogy at the Store, Even

I’m drawn to Bishop’s Orchards, a local store
where membership entitles me to discounts
if I can make the plastic card pop up
on my key chain before the customers
behind me start to fidget.

It might be simpler to have a conversation
with the manager about my Bishops’ ancestry—
I introduced this theme the last time I was there,
Mary Bishop was the one responsible, I said,
marrying George Hubbard, the surveyor,
they’re in generation twelve on my personal chart,
the cashier’s eyes glazing over as she re-bundled
the root vegetables in discreet piles.

Their daughter Sarah, I continued, gathering steam,
got mixed up with that Harrison boy from Branford,
sort of Puritan fanatics, didn’t like the way
the votes were going, and before you know it
practically the whole town disappeared, a ragtag
but upright congregation floating down the Sound
past the Dutch, establishing Newark on the Passaic.

Eventually some of them returned, like the Bishops,
like me. I see the manager has indeed been summoned.
We’ll go to his office, discuss my idea for a Bishops’ tattoo,
the crest of the Bishops of Suffolk, a more permanent
discount ID with a fast lane for all descendants who qualify—
I’m certain he’s ready to certify me now.