We Live with Things that Hurt Us All the Time

Joey Lew

A bright pink pimple with suppurative
comedone, an arthritic knee with years
left to further degrade, the decision to withdraw
life support. A stranger yelling, yelling.

I thought there would be something curative
in becoming sand-filled, punched-on,
creatively cleaved. Instead, my chest hurts.

A woman came into clinic today
because she can’t get up hills like she used to.
Of course, she says, I expected this.

1

Florida Man

Jessica Wills

On March 15th, he decided,
sobriety was an unnecessary bore
and backflipped off
the neighbor’s roof crashing
through the glass skin of the
pool, black and mist under
the full moon.
The reliable ambulance screamed jettisoning him back to the hospital where the familiar plastic tube vacuumed his tequila-soaked insides and his esophagus suffered the same caustic sting as his stomach. Red-eyed and blind he dozed in a backless gown while the doctors lectured and threatened rehab and the nurses in blue scrubs moved facelessly to change his IV, checked his vitals, and offered some applesauce to cleanse his throat.
He wanted no cleansing, this cursed regurgitation
Alone, curbed his longing
Temporarily for the undiminished
Self, never gulping fifths or
Staring down the hospital’s dead-eyed-white.
But a stronger voice sang from the streets
And within him, an urge like a belch
Waited to be released.

2

The Self

Paul Hostovsky

It was a Buddhist lecture on the Self.
There must have been fifty people
in that room with the eight Vicissitudes,
six Stages of Metta, four Noble Truths,
three Kinds of Suffering and two
ceiling fans spinning, spinning. She was
sitting on the other side of the room
touching herself. I couldn’t help staring.
She was twisting a strand of her long hair
round her fingers absentmindedly,
listening to the speaker, holding it up
to her lips, sniffing it, tasting it,
eyeing it doubtfully, then letting it go.
She caressed her cheek, her forehead.
The palm of her hand cupped her chin, fingers
drumming. It was a pensive attitude
lasting only a moment, for her hands
grew restless again, and she started hugging
herself, her left hand massaging her right
shoulder, her right hand making excursions
to the hip, belly, armpit where it moored itself
with a thumb camped out on the small hillock
of her breast. I couldn’t help wondering
if she could feel my eyes on her body the way I could
feel her hands on her body on mine. “Don’t
attach to anything as me or mine,” the Buddhist
speaker who was Jewish before he was Buddhist
was saying. “Because attachment is the second
arrow.” That’s when I realized I had missed
what the first arrow was. And then as in a dream
I was trying to raise one of my two hands lying
in my lap like two dead birds, belly up, to ask.

3

Collectors

Daniel Choe

You know
A long time ago in Korea
It was commonplace to save all nail clippings
You did it to honor your ancestors
I clip my nails into an American toilet
Does that say something
About what happened

4

Roommates

Lauren Isaacs

Play with me through my ceiling, my floor, my windows, my walls.
I am encased in four and the one in the North is low enough to slice a neck.

I hear you laughing in the South, and stand up to join you so quick that my legs give way and gravity longs for me to land upon your head.

You breathe so loud, and the sound travels upward towards me.
I am small enough for these waves to engulf me, and fall asleep imagining it is warm enough in nature to resemble an embrace.

Calm me, smother me, do not involve me.

I am waiting in every direction.

5

Vista

Katy Luxem

It is an orange day,
pollution haze tinting the sun like imitation
Ray-Bans that are not worth keeping.

Wildfires spread across the dry brush,
drive up the sides of freeways hundreds of miles
away, but smoke licks across state lines.

After all, borders mean nothing
to the air, its thickness a lightning strike
tasting anywhere it feels like

it’s not 104 anymore, cooler out
from smog or shade, though we cannot tell which.
We cannot swim, run, or be outside for fear

of breathing the triathlon of worry
caught in our chests. And if I look
to the east for any usual bearings,

I see no mountains at all. In fact
nothing rises in any direction
to mark the shape of things to come.

6

a night we are not prey

McKenna Ashlyn

so there’s partially melted
lipstick on the sidewalk (plum purple)
partially melted woman gathered
tulle sewn into hips eyelashes breasts
twirl the fumbling grace of knowing exactly
what your body is not

she tastes of scotch
tape ribbon grief
as floating confetti
she says imagine this as a bog marsh
lily pads, leapfrog stepping
stones in this great beyond
through seas of faded logoed cans
through milky way as vintage store
through a pocket folded rose garden
she reads off their names aloud
cherry parfait, sea pearl, vavoom,
easy does it lets them crawl deep
confides i know how it is to be a muse

she tears them from thorny stemmed homes
shake their petals with lavender sprigs
fanned gawking from joints
lit in alleyways pour
one out (smile) the ecosystem
wobbles to a concrete backdrop

its a wiggling worm tragedy
split in two oh bird nest upon bird nest
goathead platform built on barefeet
peek inside i'm a chandelier no shakedown
i do as i please careful candied cookie
cutter town not of-this-world-ness

alphabet soup says flatter me
or i meant what i said
or if this wasn’t worship
it’d be an echochamber
(slurp it all down)

7

Ironing Lessons

Sarah Cummins Small

Start with a spray of starch on the collar,
crisp and clean. Listen for the hiss of steam.
Move slowly, my mother says. Take your time.
The smell of stale sweat rises
beneath the fresh scent of soap.

I watch
my mother’s efficient fingers
flip and flatten, press and caress:
collar, front placket, left side, right,
between buttons, over holes. Sleeves, cuffs,
that tricky yoke, breast pocket.
Spray, steam, smooth, smooth.
Left front, back, right front. Smooth.

I itch to take over,
to hear the gargle and sizzle of hot water,
hold the heavy weight of steel.
Careful! says mother. You don’t want to scorch it!

Oh, but I do, I do.
I want to spray, steam, smooth, flip, flatten,
press that iron down right in the middle
of the crisp white back until it leaves
a brown brand, a torched tattoo—
a visible reminder of my recklessness.

Ruined, I’ll wad it up and
hide it in the attic, buried deep, deep
in the bottom of a cardboard box.

8

A pox of lips on all your houses

Ryan Arnold

A pox of lips on all your houses
Soaked in flies, cooked down into liquid
Unspeakably putrid, decomposed past any chance of identification.
The trick, they say
Is to match your wardrobe to the stains
Black pants for soot, resin, ink
Grey for ashes
Burgundy for blood
Brown for feces, chocolate and stout beer
But white shows everything
Even cum shows like mother of pearl
In the obscene moonlight.
A suit of white is the best diet there is
Can’t take any chances on meatballs
Immaculate as they may be

9

Victory Poem

Tom Barlow

My doctor calls, almost certain
I’m cancer free
a camera up my ass will confirm

My boss hands me my annual review
ninety points out of a possible hundred
my reward, an albatross project

My daughter gives me a schnoodle
to replace my late wife
the dog thinks of nothing but escape

Every victory poem is
written on poisoned paper

My upcoming birthday cake
I can see the reaper’s boney finger
drag through the icing

Just because we celebrate the dawn
doesn’t mean the sun won’t one day
set the world on fire

The flames running up my arm
are so beautiful

This is going to hurt.

10

piss on the clock

Jess Smith

hold your piss for five more minutes
just till you get in the door
just till you clock on and start the first chore of the day
then piss
piss on the job
all over the job
make pissing your job, make them pay you for it
make them pay
because if they’re going to pay for your body and all
the money it makes, let them pay too
for its waste
don’t waste your waste
write your humanity into the contract
demand your gross body functions
threaten a tribunal, an injunction, over it
make it legally binding
a High Priority task
don’t ask
don’t wait
leave the meeting
drop the plates
mop down, call ended, hands free, chair
empty
the very moment you feel
that urge, that familiar
fullness, that slow coiling ache of need
stop what you’re doing
find a toilet
the nice ones they keep
for customers
the cleanest, most sparkling cubicle
and when you’re ready

piss

shit

empty your stoma bag

dump your menstrual cup
let it go
all that blood you’ve made

however you empty yourself
restore yourself
don’t rush it either
sit down, get comfy, enjoy it, own it, take
your time, take
the moment
feel the seconds, minutes, pass
this time is yours, most important –
it’s theirs.
and don’t stop at toilet breaks
blow your nose
square the tissue into soft clean folds
to receive you
sneeze and enjoy the process
realisation. build. release.
cinematic in its acts
yawn and savour the pleasurable
stretching of your jaw
make that yawning noise that dads make
so loud it demands to be heard
from upstairs
face the cameras while you do it
let them watch your body work in ways
it’s not supposed to, the ways
that it was born to and
god whatever you do
just hold your piss for five more minutes
don’t go before you leave the house
don’t stop in somewhere on your commute, walk faster, run
if you're desperate
take the quicker route, but for
fuck sake hold it in
save it for work
save yourself
from becoming the good of all your parts, from becoming
an Asset
from becoming your body’s smooth oily runnings
and nothing else
nothing more
life is short and your time is precious and your piss
oh your piss is just
golden
piss on the clock
all over the clock
there’s no time like five minutes from now
there’s no time like 9-to-5, there’s no time
like theirs.

11

Viernes Para Recordar

Samantha Moe

Dead as one daughter heads towards the city
The other has left, says she would have stayed
If only she’d known you were going to leave
That night, clean bedsheets, cotton gown, lace
Shining shoes you loved, gemstones packed
In their velvet boxes, a mixture of costume
And real jewels, she has your necklace, I have
Your bracelet.
Mother calls her the death receptionist, phoning
Our family members to tell them what happened
Ay, no me digas, they say. Bien, dejame llamar a
algien, the soft click, even softer fabric, bird scissors
Gold hinges, box of buttons and needles, you think
It only happened once?
The smudge at the foot of the bed, the daughters
Suffering is for witching hour, revelations over
Breakfast, poundcake and the time I ran away
From home, we were both abused and each night
The walls peel themselves apart, stoop inside my
Body, hang like a wing, not protective, this is
A smothering, I am another daughter, there are
So many of us waiting for the box of ashes, should
Have put you in the soil, where’s your body, baby,
Why aren’t you crying in the bathroom?
Someone is snuffing out your candle, I have taken
All your Manhattan coats, the black ones with
Shining buttons, I pretend I’m you, everyone calls
Me su nieta but no, I am wearing the coverings
Now, I walk across Broadway, smoke in the bank,
Call everyone darling, wish for forgiveness, cry
So many times my face becomes permanently cold
You know how it is.
The women leavers and the women leftovers
The home space still stands, its walls greasy with
Violence; we try to change the hallway back
To its youthful green, we dance and kiss in front
Of your photograph, if you knew you would have
Hated us.

12

Mouton-Douvernet

Ana Bradley

The metro is a strange,
Liminal space
Where it is always night,
And there is always such a mixture of people
Going here, there,
Everywhere,
And nobody speaks.
It is always nighttime in the station,
Where the screaming, whistling, roaring beast
Spits out its insides,
To the white-tiled, lunatic asylum, horror-film funnel
For devilish winds to whip through.
You push open the exit door,
Hear it clang and screech,
Then allow
The escalator to carry you up,
Into the light.

13