Hymn for the Powers That Be | Dustin King

Image: William Morris

Hymn for the Powers That Be

I have a story to tell, a picture to weave behind your eyes.
Blood steamed from the sands. Dinner charred on all sides.
Slip into the bath. Sip tea. A lot of hot liquid at once.
Night after night we remember what we achieve in dreams.
Forgotten in the silence of the morning, the deafening stirring of coffee.
We mouth breath into each other’s mouths. We purr and hiss into the abyss.
In the west mountains move. A whole tree floats down the river.
In my backyard I prod air with a finger and it ripples.
Lines of ants spiral out and under front doors.
A neighbor sobs. A neighbor chops carrots.
A dog barks. A child scolded. Chop chop. And again.
Light shines off the azaleas’ white petals that brown as they wilt.
What will the weeds cradle, gobble? Today is Sunday. Reset day.
Streak of yellow house finch. Buttercup gold dust between my toes.
Day of apologies, forgiveness. Ask for it and receive it in an inhale.
Exhale. In the east waves wash away footprints where we never walked.
Grubs in the garden swallow dirt in the dark.
Speak to the dead. Who dares speak for them?
Is anxiety just the fear of being afraid? Neighbors point to the sky:
A hawk’s arc. A contrail’s swipe. Clouds morph,
take on their many shapes. Swine, toaster, werewolf, Ferrari.
The breeze whispers into trees’ ears, storm, storm.
Where did the birds go? Those first few drops keep their promise.
Sections of the city brimming. Dancers in the downpour.
Metal screeching out of time with the earth’s humming veins.
Then dusk again. Bats spell it out as mosquitoes disappear midair.
The stars! There are more the more you look.
Pray there is appeasing the powers that never were.

Dustin would always rather be sneaking a bottle of wine into a movie theater. When nothing good is playing, he teaches Spanish and runs a small organization that provides aid to the undocumented community in Richmond, Va. His poems pop up in the Potomac Review, Ligeia, Drunk Monkeys, Sublunary Review, and other spots. His poem “Progress, Mexico” appears in an earlier release of poems from the South Broadway Ghost Society.  

brisk | Lou Smith

Image: Rick Meyers

brisk

two white cranes with pencil-thin necks, flap their gracious wings against blue

mist rises from the creek as though it is scalding

brisk, is how you would describe this cold, cold morning where breath fogs in front of us like small puffs of smoke from early morning cigarettes

the creek is gentle today, as though there are more important things to do than rush

ducks sleep in the rushes, their heads buried so deep in feathers it’s as if they have no heads at all

Lou Smith is a poet based in Naarm/Melbourne in so-called Australia. Her poetry has appeared in journals and anthologies including Rabbit, Blue Bottle, Wasafiri, sx Salon, Moko, soft surface and Kunapipi. Lou is the author of the poetry collection riversalt (Flying Island Books). She has a PhD in Creative Writing from the University of Melbourne. 

www.lousmith.net
Instagram: @geniiloci