#TodaysPoem

I remember lightning.

I remember wild red poppies in Italy.

I remember selling blood every three months on Second Avenue.

I remember a boy I once made love with and after it was all over he asked me if I believed in God.

I remember when I thought that anything old was very valuable.

— I remember by Joe Brainard (Page 20)

Anaphora as Coping Mechanism by Ocean Vuong

Can't sleep so you put on his grey boots—nothing else—& step inside the rain. Even though he's gone, you think, I still want to be clean. If only the rain were gasoline, your tongue a lit match, & you can change without disappearing. If only he dies the second his name becomes a tooth in your mouth. But he doesn't. He dies when they wheel him away & the priest ushers you out of the room, your palms two puddles of rain. He dies as your heart beats faster, as another war coppers the sky. He dies each night you close your eyes & hear his slow exhale. Your fist choking the dark. Your fist through the bathroom mirror. He dies at the party where everyone laughs & all you want is to go into the kitchen & make seven omelets before burning down the house. All you want is to run into the woods & beg the wolf to fuck you up. He dies when you wake & it's November forever. A Hendrix record melted on a rusted needle. He dies the morning he kisses you for two minutes too long, when he says Wait followed by I have something to say & you quickly grab your favorite pink pillow & smother him as he cries into the soft & darkening fabric. You hold still until he's very quiet, until the walls dissolve & you're both standing in the crowded train again. Look how it rocks you back & forth like a slow dance seen from the distance of years. You're still a freshman. You're still terrified of having only two hands. & he doesn't know your name yet but he smiles anyway. His teeth reflected in the window reflecting your lips as you mouth Hello—your tongue a lit match.

— Night Sky with Exit Wounds by Ocean Vuong (Page 40)

Instead of Depression by Andrea Gibson

try calling it hibernation. Imagine the darkness is a cave in which you will be nurtured by doing absolutely nothing. Hibernating animals don't even dream. It's okay if you can't imagine spring. Sleep through the alarm of the world. Name your hopelessness a quiet hollow, a place you go to heal, a den you dug, Sweetheart, instead of a grave.

— You Better Be Lightning by Andrea Gibson (Page 32)

The Exchange by May Swenson

Now my body flat, the ground breathes, I'll be the grass.

Populous and mixed is mind. Earth take thought, my mouth be moss.

Field go walking, I a disk will look down with seeming eye,

I will be time and study to be evening. You world, be clock.

I will stand, a tree here, never to know another spot.

Wind be motion, birds be passion, water invite me to your bed.

— Queer Nature by Michael Walsh (Page 283)

You Took the Last Bus Home by Brian Bilston

you took the last bus home don't know how you got it through the door

you're always doing amazing stuff

like the time you caught that train

— You Took the Last Bus Home by Brian Bilston (Page 1)