Exclusive Poetry Feature: “A Modest Revision for Wedding Vows” by Josh Lefkowitz

 

In sickness and in health

goes the common ceremonial refrain,

but I would add in boredom

and while doing day-to-day mundane activities.

 

In grocery shopping on Sunday mornings.

In folding the laundry side-by-side

with country music radio accompaniment.

 

I’m not saying this is me

at my most romantic.

But let’s be practical, too.

 

The average life expectancies:

76 for men, 81 for women.

(Lucky you, with those extra five years

and complete control of the TV remote).

 

Average age of marriage:

27 for women, 29 for men.

 

That means we’re staring down the collective barrel

of forty-seven to fifty-four years of matrimony.

Yes, I think a pragmatic revision seems right.

 

And isn’t that the real meat, anyhow?

It’s true: a car accident or cancerous cyst,

an unexpected hospital stay

will often breed the most tender exchanges.

 

We know how to love

when the threat of a too-soon end looms.

So why do we forget how it always looms?

 

Let’s practice love on some dumb Tuesday evening,

where everyone’s exhausted from stresses at work

and neither party has the patience for risotto.

 

Let’s love as we heat up the leftovers,

love the familiarity of our ten-year-old

chipped tableware which we swear to someday replace.

 

That you, in spite of the terrible nightly news,

continue to sort our paper from plastic

strikes me as an impossibly hope-filled act.

 

I’m serious! Of course I loved you then, when

you wore white, your hair an immaculate bouquet.

 

But now, decades later – remembering

how temporal all this is – I watch you

floss your teeth for the ten-thousandth time

and my skin can still turn to gooseflesh.

 

The Parisian honeymoon’s a distant memory, and yet

I would not want to be anywhere other than here:

you putting on your nighttime t-shirt,

the one with the Rolling Stones logo

and a little hole in the shoulder material

through which your skin beneath shines.

Sometimes, I still can’t believe that I get you

to have, and – come here – to hold.

 

Josh Lefkowitz was born and raised in the suburbs of metro Detroit. His poems and essays have been widely published online and in print, including in The New York Times, Electric Literature, Washington Square Review, Painted Bride Quarterly, Rattle, The Millions, The Rumpus, and many other places, including journals in Canada, Ireland, the United Kingdom, Germany, Australia, and Hong Kong. This is his third publication with Grub Street.

Exclusive Poetry Feature: “Our Sockets Won’t Stop Bleeding” by Leah Bushman

Wendy on my wrap around porch saw you first. 

Wendy on my wrap around porch saw you first. 

Saw the dust flying from the back of your pickup truck. 

Saw the dust flying from the back of your pickup truck. 

Wendy first, saw the dust of your back porch

wrap around the flying pickup truck from on my. 

 

Your eye socket black as coal pierced me, I think you are my soul 

your eye socket black as coal pierced me, I think you are my soul 

mate is the coupling of two same souls, shame is the mirror I hold. 

Mate is the coupling of two same souls, shame is the mirror I hold. 

Eye coupling black shame I hold of two are mate,

mirror socket pierced same souls, coal is you think the.

 

You leaned in to kiss me and your socket had grown an eye gone crooked. 

You leaned in to kiss me and your socket had grown an eye gone crooked. 

You pulled back searching for a pain, plucked out a tooth wriggling with worm. 

You pulled back searching for a pain, plucked out a tooth wriggling with worm. 

Kiss me you searching pulled pain, wriggling with your plucked back socket. 

Crooked worm grown a me and had an eye gone tooth.                       

 

Wendy saw me and you coupling, first had shame flying around mirror sockets.

Dust your porch of pain, pickup the worm grown searching of a mate,

a soul pierced black with truck coal is wriggling on my crooked. 

Kiss an eye I hold a tooth pulled back.

Plucked you from wrap leaned think,

gone are the same two socket of me.

 

Leah Bushman is a nature gazer and animal lover who rarely takes life seriously. This is her first publication. A Towson University graduate with a B.S. in English, she can be found on social media at @leahbushman.

Exclusive Poetry Feature: “Baby Boomers (False Flags)” by Scott Laudati

Saturday night and London blows up.

France takes a bye this week.

New Jersey sleeps tight

and I tell my father

it’s only a matter of time

before

a taco truck with Haliburton stamps

runs down a few Chinese tourists

and a white girl from Indiana.

They’ve done it before

I say –

they print money

and detonate explosives

from the ground floor up.

Put your hand to your heart

and thank god for Walmart.

Is that Him out there?

No.

It’s another talking point to get

your kids on your knees

so when your head rolls

into their laps

your sacrifice

will have some meaning,

and you won’t look like the other fools of history

who died for nothing.

 

The trumpet sounds over a

misty DC morning.

A frozen yogurt stand

hands out extra sprinkles.

The kids lick up icing

while the buildings fall down.

But they didn’t see any planes

in the sky.

It was just like last time.

The parents burned their books

and checked themselves into camps

and smiled at the barbed wire

and said, “It won’t happen here.”

 

Scott Laudati is the author of Hawaiian Shirts In The Electric Chair REDUX (Cephalo Press). Visit him on social media @ScottLaudati

Exclusive Poetry Feature: “Dinah” by Millie Tullis

 

…….And he took her, and lay with her, and humbled her. (Genesis 34:2)

 

daddy knew right away

sat me down and said

is this a good boy

 

it hurt to sit

i am thirteen

i am crying

 

am i crying

if i start

i can’t stop

 

daddy said

they’re good people

momma put on her hat

 

followed him out

good people

we are

 

………..my best friend home

………..sick that day

………..i walked the short cut

 

………………..it was a new dress

………………..pretty as a picture too 

………………..much pink in the trees

 

momma says 

i’m getting married 

i can’t go to school

 

for the baby i gotta 

rework some old things 

stitch up some new things

 

the small white socks

i make with one

long thread

 

………………..my brothers are angry

………………..at him comin

………………..to sunday dinner 

 

………………..daddy won’t 

………………..let them get

………………..a word in

 

………..someone don’t

………..come home 

………..that night

 

Millie Tullis is an MFA poetry candidate at George Mason University. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Sugar House Review, Rock & Sling, Cimarron Review, Ninth Letter, Juked, and elsewhere. She serves as the Assistant Editor for Best of the Net and Poetry Editor and Social Media Manager for Phoebe. She also reads for Poetry Daily. You can find her on twitter @millie_tullis.