About Posit Editor

Susan Lewis (susanlewis.net) is the editor of Posit (positjournal.com) and the author of ten books and chapbooks, including Zoom, winner of the 2017 Washington Prize, Heisenberg's Salon, This Visit, and State of the Union. Her poetry has appeared in such places as The Awl, Berkeley Poetry Review, Boston Review, The Brooklyn Rail, Cimarron, Gargoyle, The Journal, New American Writing, The New Orleans Review, Prelude, Raritan, Seneca Review, So to Speak, Verse, Verse Daily, and VOLT.

Chuck Wachtel


Sheltering In Place

I must say, that the peace the spirit needs is peace
not lack of war, but fierce continual flame.
—Muriel Rukeyser

And it’s only here and
now that we can make up
for lost time while the meter
is running and everything
is on hold

—Lewis Warsh, 11/9/1944 -11/15/2020,
for whom this poem is written

 

I cannot feel it in here, but the air rises,
gently, perhaps pushed by the exhaled breaths
of my daughter, sitting on the floor beside
the kitchen table, brushing the cat.

Are you getting used to it? Does the phrase apply?
Is there time, or some other means by which one thing
becomes another thing? Lewis, I miss
the substance of your presence. I am reading,

for the second time this morning, these
two sentences, written a hundred and ten years ago,
one right after the other, by Franz Kafka: “When
the breakfast noise dies down to the left of me,

the lunch noise starts up on the right.
Everywhere doors are being opened as if people
wanted to come crashing through the walls.”
And now, one after another, two light-gray, loosely-bound

clumps of cat hair skitter like tumbleweeds across
the plain of toast crumbs scattered on the plate
in front of the chair across from mine
where my daughter just had her breakfast, and now,

Lewis, I must say… it’s so quiet here, in this room
where we try to continue being who we still, mostly,
are: I want you here, with us, still sheltering in place
for the entire moment we hover in the serene eye

of this raging storm, until the witless idiot
once again begins pounding the wall on one side,
insisting his will is our will, while the plague starts in
whispering its toxic secrets against the other.

Chuck Wachtel is the author of the novels Joe The Engineer, The Gates, and 3/03; a collection of stories and novellas, Because We Are Here; and five collections of poems and short prose, most recently The Coriolis Effect and What Happens to Me. He lives in NYC, and is retired from, though still occasionally teaching in, the creative writing program at NYU.

Elizabeth Shull

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Artist’s Statement

A central rhythm in my work is the exploration of texture and is often combined with the disclosure of the unexpected. I am intrigued with the nuances of the natural world and the endless supply of subject matter with all its subtleties and surprises. I don’t tell you what to see but remind you to be observant and investigate beyond the surface. By layering and creating texture there seems to be an archeological direction with what is clearly visible and what is more obscure. My art practice is about the process, risk taking, discovery, and the magic of research.

Elizabeth Shull was born and raised in Southern California and lives in Los Angeles. As a painter her predominant intention is to encourage visual exploration and trigger thinking beyond the predictable. Elizabeth’s undergraduate degree is from the University of California, Santa Cruz. She holds an MFA from Otis Art Institute in Los Angeles. She has participated in many exhibitions and has pieces in several private collections.

JoAnna Novak

Highboy

I think today of corners, how they allot space, and last
night my head was lower than soap on the drain. I
think today of corners, and last night I thought of
you. You taught me to hide. To hide to hear to sneak
down, duck the cellar door. Gold is stable; so am I.

From the dormer in the nursery, roof slanted as a
tithe, I watch Cheerful Chuck reroute a spout. He is
focused, tongue knotted in his cheek like a hickory
nut. Cheerful Chuck never stops, mason of
continency, caulks his cocoa-brown stripes, good
gutters are wide gutters, he says, $1569, fair price.

A slow accrual of wealth under a stratum of dying-
day-by-day magnolias. The rules of dividends crack
Bateman’s sidewalks, slanting the shabbiest historic
district.

What if simplicity saves nothing? If my monochrome
chant is a mere red grunt? With a spine like a scythe,
I’m naked under this surplice, picking varnish off my
palms:

bad razor + bad blade = rufous stigmata.

I love your sense. I love your stability. I love your
advice. I love your father making furniture, joints
joists vices files ferries roses and fathers, were I a man
I’d be a father, shan’t I, shouldn’t I, someday: I know
nothing, I am trying to learn. I am not a novena,
prayerfully blank, not la edgish, embittered esposa,
getting easily drunk, painting foxes, teeth in denial, on
tall chests of drawers. Let me survive the hoard of
hand-me-downs and sentiment, the flinch and shrink
and scowl before savings. Do I look vegan? Slow-mo
in my flamboyance? What can I do?

Come here, come stay, come over. Bring your sloppy
dog, your stormy windbreaker, your animal crackers,
your scarab script. It’s no way to live. I want to drive
all over the country, too, look beyond the furniture. I
spent decades multi-hearsed by the market, you told
me, don’t do that. I have a spare bedroom. As many
as four coffins.

I heard the dresser topple at midnight. I nested till
morning. Up again, I was surrounded by black hills
and an enemy with busy lips and a tank to burn and
pockets stuffed with chips. Everyone went Pert ’n
Pretti.

What do you see, brown bear? What do you see,
purple cat? What do you need, black sheep?

, and As It Ought To Be

The floating hospital is leavened. And I am its
aproned mistress. Where bandages were, bread is now
ordinary. Levain. Mother. Bialy. Bagel. Bostock,
brioche, biscuit. Blue gloves are garbage. I am still not
sure what decadence I’m after, but I board and scoff
at the wharf, holding my French pin. Others are
rinsing curtains. Others are scrubbing shutters.
Together we are the gale in an ordinary machine.
Even the rain cleans, drenching metal awnings, where
spring birds build nests in the girders. Tell me to get
off the boat and I’ll bury my nose in a cookbook.
Check. Check. Fasting agreed with me, made me
limpid and vigilant. I laminated dough. I listened like
a nightingale. I could stay up for hours, overnights,
limewashed and fumigated, loyal and laboring.
Whence before I could barely spell adolescence,
whence before I was ravenous, yet I advanced along
the plank and called it a path, an El Dorado of rubies
and routine. “The more do I find work a necessity,” I
read, “the greatest of pleasures.”

JoAnna Novak’s debut memoir Contradiction Days will be published by Catapult in 2022. Her short story collection, Meaningful Work, won the 2020 Ronald Sukenick Innovative Fiction Contest and will be published by FC2 in 2021. Her third book of poetry, New Life, will be published by Black Lawrence Press in 2021. The author of the novel I Must Have You, she is a co-founder of the literary journal and chapbook publisher, Tammy.

David Mills

Talking to the Bones
(spirit of enslaved New York City Chimney Sweep
Apprentice: 18th century)

What of only chimneys and flues?
This: the one moment master permitted
me to be above him

How so?
Only in filth could I gain favor

Did you ever dream?
Things like thoughts weighed
too heavy on my head

How should you be remembered?
The neck a storm; the head a cloud
unsettled by its own weather

Talking to The Bones
(spirit of Joseph Castins, only enslaved New Yorker
whose full name is known and who is buried
in New York’s slave cemetery)

Had you made Joshua Delaplaine’s acquaintance, Mr. Castins?
Death: a sad cabinet is it not?

Joseph, when did Delaplaine put you in his account book?
My account: with G-d

How did you die with a given and surname?
The first shall have a last and the last shall have a first

David Mills holds an MFA from Warren Wilson College. He’s published three collections, The Dream Detective, The Sudden Country and After Mistic. His poems have appeared in Ploughshares, Brooklyn Rail, Colorado Review, Crab Orchard Review, Jubilat,and Callaloo . He has received fellowships from the New York Foundation for the Arts, Breadloaf, The American Antiquarian Society, and the Lannan Foundation. He lived in Langston Hughes’ landmark Harlem home.

Lisa Lewis

Parking Lot Allegory

As a partridge that broods but does not hatch,
So is he who gets riches, but not by right;
It will leave him in the midst of his days,
And at his end he will be a fool.

Jeremiah 17:10-11

The woman I know who was stabbed in the neck
said it happened in a parking garage. Ten ramps up,
maybe, it’s easy to lose count in those things
chasing space. Which is what the architects
did when they planned the new building
for the business college, its unglassed frame
now swelling over what used to be the parking lot
for people who don’t work there and people
who do: unfinished, it’s a cruise ship unloading
ghosts, and in the design sketch, ghosts pace
clipped grass sown and watered where cars
once clicked like time bombs, about to blow
for the sake of still life, a genre, prior to
the eighteenth century, primarily concerned
with religion and allegory. I have never had
a direct encounter with the divine, but if I do
it will happen here, on the hottest day
of the decade, 115 in the shade and a storm
clashing cymbals above the neighborhood
restaurants’ No Parking signs and the art
students’ dried flowers whirling in a cone
like a woodpecker. I have also never admitted
I am likely to die in Oklahoma from living here
too long, and if I think of it I think like a partridge,
a dead one hung on a nail for a painting, or the first
partridge, the nephew of Daedalus, flung in rage
from the hill of Athena, and I have hoarded rage
in my barred feathers like the lines of cars
in a garage where a would-be killer slips
between shadows preparing to ambush his victim,
who will not recover into fullness again
but will retreat from what she knew without thinking,
the walks, the dancing, the long or short flights
like any bird’s imbued with the glancing flavor
of impure air that nonetheless does not destroy.
The partridge is not a beautiful bird, and the grass
where the workers used to park their cars is falling
down on the job itself, or will be, that day of heat
and blood and the smell of god like toasted sugar,
the sprinklers twirling elixirs madly and the president
of the university wandering the maze his wife
had built because she loves beauty and the mystery
of beauty, she even loves the mystery of ghosts,
and he wonders if he might dine on partridge.
His wife will know how to render its breast,
but the partridge is impure and lustful, unfit
for the tongue of the religious even if his prayers
are heard only by donors who admire the endeavors
of the business college and take as their doctrine
its longing to rise above the prairie and the ghosts
as if also wingéd and holy, soaring unlike the sexual
partridge, described in the medieval bestiary
lying on its back, covering its eggs with dust.
The partridges native to Oklahoma include pheasant,
sage-grouse, prairie chicken, and, notably, wild turkey.
Sometimes they barge right into town, groups in single
file, large enough no unarmed human interferes,
but they possess no riches. Their dull brown feathers
dangling, they seem to have brooded not at all.
Yet next year, like every year, there will be more,
pacing out fledged measurements, and us
behind them with our empty bags and long walks
to the nearest bus stop and then the necessary,
humiliating, noxious ride to wherever we almost live
and work to afford and there are shadows
we hardly get the chance to know before
someone rises from the gray with a blade.

in the eyes of the watcher

I missed her when I went looking
night out, aftermath of lightning
night out, aftermath of lead poisoning
night out, no aftermath
four kids staring out car windows, cardinal directions
big kids who wanted to keep going
big kids who thought they’d stay the same
you could break open a fig and watch ants run everywhere
when I was a girl spying the fig tree spread its wings
I never approached the circle of dancers
why do I find no trace of the broken watch
taken apart with care to locate the pace of the gear and the grind
no reflection of the face known not to echo the shape of the void
she never spoke and I never heard her
she had nothing but figs and salt
didn’t mix them didn’t season the flavor
she wanted to go for a long ride
she wanted things different on return
no octagon of warning
no crumpled collie body in the highway
no blame for leaving early and not looking backwards when he
followed
the passenger in the car, male, hazel eyes
in search of additional softness she groped inside her open jaw
she stuck a finger in there and found a lump in her throat
nobody came back and they were supposed to
according to whomever was watching and making rules for watching
she only thought why not why not why not
she tattled like that so long it went straight to the crying
nothing could sink against the rough grains
as if to the bottom of a bathtub full of hair
the bottom of a body touched and touched again
intent to harm stashed in its rag sock
like a smell or an egg or a hand or a throat
a voice stuck in a trumpet or a broken harp
a voice that spoke fast so it wouldn’t have to hear
it’s still not finished and doesn’t sound right
that echo as if air entered the right ear
and words came out the painted side of the world
where the same old woman who runs hard down my block
leading her dead collie and sometimes a dun pony
strains to recall and put them in order
her face records the changes as curves
the highway grows a new leg after every bend
when she turns the corner she is shouting

Candle

I’ve been trying to explain how light is like a building.
I don’t sashay the mortar of sunlight into road cracks
so driving is driving blind. All I know is the world
is on the other side and I need a ride, will you take me?
Everything bends inside your sunglasses, your face
doing honors where I can see it and praise it, and we warp
in the direction of broken bridges and cattle-backs
drenched in dew. But first we scale a precipice of light
flinching at the raised hand of gleam. Light like a door
in light, bleaching gold from alchemy of light, separating
yolk of light’s yellow. The climb leans slow so at first
we don’t feel our ears filling with light, then it’s all
we can hear, a question, a book of questions, a book
of intrigue shining down on a book of boredom, workmen
strapping belts of light to their waists and scaling trees
of light. You turn on the radio to drown or distract
and the stretched skin of light on the high plains streams
flux from the speakers. Another skyscraper, wrong for this
landscape but proud in horizon light. Another fusty
warehouse of light. A skating rink darting with lost beams,
twirling skirts of light. I drew up shades and was glad
to trace burning on the taut glass. I remember tips of late
sunset tossing weed-heads, drawing out tongues.
We’re going to make it to the mountain tonight, if what
we see is mountain. Whoever glances in the mirror
sees everything we flattened half-alive like grass rippled
by wind, like what people say they want but if they found
a window at the end of a hall they’d stare out at the air
full of threats that can’t get in buoyed by brightness.
They’re locked in the building, invisible too, and we’re
on our way up the staircase, remembering when it was only
a highway, and the fire we understand is carrying out orders
was a dab of paint on canvas, an overexposure, not hands
on the railing, explosion, darkness, later a healing scar.

Lisa Lewis has published six books of poetry, most recently The Body Double (Georgetown Review Press, 2016) and Taxonomy of the Missing (The Word Works, 2018). Recent work appears or is forthcoming in Crazyhorse, Gulf Coast, New England Review, South Dakota Review, Diode, Interim, Laurel Review, and elsewhere. She directs the creative writing program at Oklahoma State University and serves as editor of the Cimarron Review.

Kristin LaFollette

The Accident (2017)
The Accident (2017)
like a cell of your skin (2019)
like a cell of your skin (2019)
Old Bones (2019)
Old Bones (2019)
Kristin LaFollette is a writer, artist, and photographer and is the author of the chapbook, Body Parts (GFT Press, 2018). She is a professor at the University of Southern Indiana and serves as the Art Editor at Mud Season Review. You can visit her on Twitter at @k_lafollette03 or on her website at kristinlafollette.com.

Genevieve Kaplan

Are you working

Go back to your room, and bring me
one drawing of a flower, one drawing of a boat
one with language, one determined. Also please
tell me how one could be delightful, pulled out, loosely
skeined and how each drawing
is a way to begin. Disregard that lingering “I, too…”
or “I, and…” and “don’t you see me?” to find one careful
note in the margin, one date
one pencil, one scrawl. We can both agree
to love: the soft
bay, that spring-enough
meadow, volunteer tomatoes
near the driveway, cantaloupes
from the farmers’ market, summer’s dust
in the morning air. You give up
the convenience of a walk while I turn the pages, run
one finger over leaves. I ask each word, and I hone in on
their availability
just one of something, please
as I know that sorrow is, but sorrow goes.

At one point in the dream

I admired a chain link fence in a field. It was
incandescent. It was threaded with spider floss.
Who knew what I liked or what I’d notice.
I certainly didn’t. The green behind the fence
could not withstand much, and I wanted
to ask, are you okay? Have you gotten enough rest
enough water, an aspirin if you needed it.
Have you located the drawer
near the bedside and put the danger in it for later.

Seasonal Affinity

What do you think, other in the driveway, other in the sideyard with a grasscutting machine, with a
spoon, with a broom.
If branches from the tree come down and someone says, “well, this time you’ve really hit upon
something.”
And the street is empty, but it fills with water when it rains.
These come together, somehow one image wants to eat the other, one detail actually manages to
encompass the entirety of the other.
What do you think, black feet of a bird, or dark brown feet of a bird, skitter the fence and we
clutch and we clutch and we clutch and watch the alley.
Signs of squirrels, the fallen trees, you want the view that extends vertically, that stretches
horizontally, maybe surprise yourself by starting with a window, maybe begin by ducking
between a building and a building and continuing straight on through until dilution is
achieved.

Some observations about language

Sass
and jest use sibilance similarly and repetition
can create a droning
or a warning; it can catch. At times I want
someone to see me
with unsure eyes, in disbelief.
Maybe you’d prefer not
to write the poem about your partner
dying on the job
while deployed, which is fine. But might
there be a threat
in the background? We must read
the situation with such careful
attentiveness. Startle
your children, startle your friends, fold
the self down into a flat tiny triangle
before allowing your self
to open again.
I pour
water into dishes. I lift dishes,
push dishes
in order
to create a sound.
We live
on a cul-de-sac, and the easements beyond
our sidewalks
are up for grabs. Someone
will take that empty space, and someone will fill it.

Genevieve Kaplan is the author of (aviary) (Veliz Books, 2020); In the ice house (Red Hen Press, 2011), winner of the A Room of Her Own Foundation’s poetry publication prize; and four chapbooks, most recently I exit the hallway and turn right from above/ground press. Her poems can be found in Third Coast, Spillway, Denver Quarterly, South Dakota Review, Poetry, and other journals. A poet, scholar, and book-maker, Genevieve lives in southern California. She edits the Toad Press International chapbook series, publishing contemporary translations of poetry and prose. genevievekaplan.com

Donté K. Hayes

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Artist’s Statement

My research and artwork are focused on the pineapple as a symbol which represents welcoming and hospitality, while also examining issues of access to food, empire, and what constitutes the feeling and or act of being welcomed. Through this research, I have discovered that the tradition of the pineapple as a symbol for hospitality is rooted in slavery and agricultural colonization of South America, the Caribbean, and the Southern United States, in particular, South Carolina and my home state of Georgia. When a new slave ship bringing enslaved Africans docked at the port, the foremen would place a pineapple at the front of the dock to notify a new shipment of enslaved Africans has arrived. This creating the pineapple as a symbol for welcoming. The investigation in the concept of welcoming is also from personal struggles as a black man navigating public spaces and environments and not feeling like I belonged or welcomed. From this research my art practice pulls from my interest in hip-hop culture, history, and science fiction. The artwork references the visual traditions from the Southern United States, Carribbean, South America, and the African continent.

I utilize clay as a historical and creative base material to inform memories of the past. The handling of clay reveals the process and shares the markings of its maker. Ceramics becomes a bridge to conceptually integrate disparate objects and or images for the purpose of creating new understandings and connections with the material, history, and social-political issues. I compare the construction and deconstruction of materials to the remix in rap music and how human beings adapt to different environments and reinvent new identities. These ceramic objects are vessels, each making symbolic allusions to the black body.

The artworks suggest the past, discuss the present, and explores possible futures interconnected to the African Diaspora. While also examining deeper social issues that broaden the conversation between all of humanity.

Donté K. Hayes graduated summa cum laude from Kennesaw State University at Kennesaw, Georgia with a BFA in Ceramics and Printmaking with an Art History minor. Hayes received his MA and MFA with honors from the University of Iowa and is the 2017 recipient of the University of Iowa Arts Fellowship. Donté, is a 2019 Ceramics Monthly Magazine Emerging Artists and Artaxis Fellow. Donté is the 2019 winner of the 1858 Prize for Contemporary Southern Art from the Gibbes Museum of Art in Charleston, South Carolina.

Peter Grandbois

The Hole

He didn’t notice the hole until he was nearly finished painting. But there it was. A large hole in the middle of the wall, three feet by three feet. How could he not have noticed it? He approached the hole and peered through. On the other side lay a field of flowers where a bearded man lay naked, sleeping. What made it odd was that the hole should have led to his living room. Odder still was that the man’s reddish-brown beard nearly covered his entire body like a blanket, shifting and shimmering as the man breathed. It looked almost as if it were alive. He reached his arm into the hole and touched the undulating blanket of a beard. Just as he suspected. Ladybugs. Thousands and thousands of ladybugs. He called to the man, but the bearded man didn’t stir, not the slightest shift in his long, deep breaths. Breaths that made you feel as if you could float away on them. Breaths that could carry you to the cusp of clarity.

He tried to shake the man awake but only succeeded in attracting dozens of ladybugs to his own arm. He scooped one up with his index finger and studied its red shell, counted its spots. Seven. He flicked that one away and scooped another from his forearm. Seven spots again. He checked another, and another. Each one with seven dark, black spots atop that same blood-red shell. He scraped off the rest and watched as they scattered in all directions on the tarp he’d laid to catch the paint. His breathing stuttered. His chest clenched. He had a brief thought that perhaps he was having a heart attack. But no, there was no pain. Just a tightness in his chest. And those seven spots and that red shell. He found himself singing a nursery rhyme he’d learned as a child:

Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home
Your house is on fire and your children are gone
All except one, and that’s Little Anne
For she has crept under the
warming pan.

Where had that come from? And what happened to Little Anne? Nursery rhymes were never very nice. He ran to the closet, plugged in the vacuum and attached the turbo head to the multi-function hose before the bearded man had scarcely taken another breath.

Standing before the hole, holding the hose in his hand, he watched the ladybugs crawling and strutting over the man as if they owned him. He would let them know he was here. He. Was. Here. He turned on the vacuum and plunged the turbo head into the shimmering mass. They flew by the hundreds through the clear multi-function hose and into the belly of the vacuum. There were so many he worried the machine might clog. But it kept dutifully sucking. Sucking. Normally frugal, he wouldn’t have purchased a top-of-the-line vacuum, but something had compelled him, some premonition of this day, and he was thankful. For now he could see layer upon layer of ladybugs piling up in the clear plastic holding container. Returning with relish to the hole, he plunged the turbo head into the writhing beard over and over again, alternating glances at the vacuum to monitor his progress.

It was only when the overfull vacuum sputtered and died, and he saw that the beard of ladybugs was still unchanged, that he began to panic. He took handfuls and handfuls of the little creatures and shoved them into the turbo head. But they just crawled out and over him. He brushed them onto the tarp. And that’s when he saw it. The ladybugs had arranged themselves in seven large spots on the blood red tarp. The tarp had been white, hadn’t it? He was sure it had been white. Maybe the paint had spilled on it. But no, he’d been painting the walls taupe. Except that the walls of the room were also red. He could see that now. He’d been painting them red all along.

He took his brush and dipped it into the paint can, then painted over the ladybugs forming one of the spots on the tarp. He drenched them in paint, but it didn’t matter because as soon as he’d moved to paint the next spot, more ladybugs climbed on top of the painted bugs in the first spot, turning it a bottomless black once again. He kicked the paint can over and watched as the red paint slowly bled out over the ladybugs on the tarp. He turned to the hole, watched the man lying there deep in sleep, felt the man’s breath sucking in and out, in and out, as if the hole were a mouth. And now the ladybugs were spilling out of that mouth. He had to fill the hole, or at least cover it.

This time, he returned from the closet with duct tape. Tirelessly, he stretched the tape back and forth across the hole in long strips. Just one small patch left to cover, and it would all be over. He tugged on the roll of tape, but only a few more inches remained. Not enough. Still, he applied it religiously, hoping somehow it would do the job. When that failed, he slumped back against the wall, head adjacent to the tiny hole that remained.

One by one the ladybugs crept out of the hole or up from the tarp and onto his face, forming a long beard that undulated over his body as he drifted in and out of sleep, dreaming of a hole he could fill in or cover up so as never to disappear again.

Peter Grandbois is the author of eleven books. His poems, stories, and essays have appeared in over one hundred journals. His plays have been nominated for several New York Innovative Theatre Awards and have been performed in St. Louis, Columbus, Los Angeles, and New York. He is poetry editor at Boulevard magazine and teaches at Denison University in Ohio. You can find him at www.petergrandbois.com.

Thomas Fink

Dusk Bowl Intimacies 36

Leave the fig leaf alone, and everything could be fine. And she lives to dress up, and she has the right clothes—to milk the province’s uncombed masculine goofiness. Oh, this has been a terrible era for the ardent designer of outcomes reassessment. Fish come swimming up at any hour. To gawk at how bumbling “sapiens” sap sincerest intentions. Call me ancient, uncorseted and uncoveted by fresher generations, but I hereby spurn the charge

of
pickling rust-
plated American tenets.

Dusk Bowl Intimacies 37

That mind is always super-crowded. Yet I don’t want to rue all those particles, if I’ve brewed them wrong. I have to pursue another purse. Pilar has taken the wrong pillar. Indolent fit. Altogether, I think the alimony should turn out fine. But she’s much more than that. She insists on snaking her way out of the cloud sum of blaring indulgences. Bartenders and assorted bystanders hunt for every dent in the reconstituted. Instead, I prime to be a doer. Will you enjoy whatever opening? And the color, too?

Each
time I
see you flush

with
investments, I
get slap happy.

Thomas Fink, a professor of English at CUNY-LaGuardia, is the author of 11 books of poetry, most recently A Pageant for Every Addiction (Marsh Hawk Press, 2020), in collaboration with Maya D. Mason, and Hedge Fund Certainty (Meritage & ie Press, 2019), as well as two books of criticism. He has also edited two critical anthologies.