Zingolgy

Airplane Conversation

The middle seat man is talking
to the aisle seat woman as I move
across knees to the window.

I balance the orchid between my feet
and manifest survival.
I can’t tell whether they know each other.

They seem to converse easily
though there is a spec of formality.
I tune in to dog stories; his died, hers died.

Turning to see what they look like,
I catch only the jeans and leather jacket.
He said, that’s the problem, they don’t live very long.

He said, my mother, with two months to live,
had zero quality of life. When the baby boomers
start to die, they’re going to legalize euthanasia.

He said, What you hear and see is terrible today.
I think this is his fourth wife; he must have murdered her.
She died eating wild mushrooms.

He said, Remember Charles Stuart, killed his wife.
Then he jumped off a bridge and killed himself.
It was the honorable thing to do.

They’re steeped in death, I think. Maybe we’re closer to God
up here; the deliver and take-away place
where all destinies get decided.

From my seat, the line-up of orange roofs disappear.
Clouds thicken, then just atmosphere, mostly white
and nothing flies by.

Carol Seitchik, 11.07

Hay Bales

In the field
strands
of mustard colored threads
amass
one strand attracts
another
and it rolls along
a thread
a strand
a weave
a mass
a roll
bundles form
one on top of the other
four along the bottom
three on the next row
then two
then one
then only the sky above
and this monolith
enters space
announces itself
you would think it was
a work of art

CAROL SEITCHIK

Carol Seitchik’s poems have appeared in Heartlodge (nominated for a Pushcart prize) and The Endicott Review. She has won awards from ByLine Magazine, The Poetry Society of Virginia and North Shore Poetry contest.

Carol lives on the north shore of Boston and works as a visual artist and independent curator. Over the past few years she has journeyed into language and poetry and is presently consumed with the permission to say anything.

The Insistence of Relationships

The two of us talk relationships as we dine,
disguising ourselves in universal words.
We keep it abstract, no mention of messy, together stuff.

I address that soft, fuzzy, unnamed part, tell him
one makes peace with a war-torn spouse and carries on.
His sheepish smile tells me we are equally attuned

though perhaps a surprise that I carry around the morbidity
of our relationship, immortalize it on the page. Nothing more
to be said as we remain in our own personal agendas.

Einstein figured we could swap mass and energy,
like converting a bundle of hostility into one’s ability
to be free. The conversion factor is huge.

From our table we are witness to a family of three.
The man stays sullen and unapproachable,
his head lowered. A hand blocks his vision

from the child to his right, who nuzzles up to him.
You feel her youthful agony. She tries to set him free.
The wife is silent with a certain casualness

that doesn’t hide her tension. The explosion potential
is imminent until the food arrives. After the first few bites
he softens and words are spoken, cautiously,

in a humble way, to save his self respect
something about the food on his plate, platitudes,
a grieving for words that can’t be spoken.

DAN MAC ALPINE

Dan Mac Alpine lives in Ipswich and is senior editor of the Beverly Citizen, serving a life sentence as a career journalist. He has two daughters, 23, and soon to be 21.

He's been running distance since ninth grade when he took up the sport under the mistaken impression he could win attention of Dolores, a beautiful, red-haired girl. Like Charlie Brown, he never got the girl, but he did gain a lifelong love of distance running.

He graduated from UMass Dartmouth in 1981 as an English-German major but has only recently regained the nerve to pretend to write poetry. Walt Whitman is his favorite poet. Last book read: The Castle in the Forest by the late Norman Mailer.

For Dylan at 21

I gasped at your silent blue birth —
splotched red,
a mother’s clinging hope,
a blood sacrifice she willingly made —
and breathed again only at your cry.

I held you tight to my shoulder.
Patted your palm-sized back.
Touching the miracle.
Forging a father’s bond.
Making up for nine months lost.
Claiming the mine in you.

I read “Goodnight Moon.”
Dripped warm oil in your ears.
I put you barefoot in the snow when you refused boots.
Cried with you. Cupped those red-cold feet. The pain doubled in my heart.
I made you eat fruit.
Turned off the TV.
Let you choose clothes.
Let you tell me when to cross the street.
French braided your white hair.
Tried to help with math.
Taught you to trap a soccer ball. Throw a soft ball. Dribble a basketball.
Baked cookies.

Though I left, I tried never to be gone.

I smile:
How fiercely you seize what was never mine,
and always yours.

I gasp —
at those flawless diamond blue eyes
at the blonde hair, cut how many times for Locks of Love
at the lean, lythe, bird-boned frame,
at the marrow-deep strength,

at the woman you have become.

DAM

I was rapacious

The starving lioness

Smallest female in the pride

Last to share in the feast

When nothing was left but the bones

But tonight my gnawing hunger overwhelmed my fear

I attacked and devoured you

Then settled back purring and licking my velvet paws

And yawning with sated content

ROBIN COHEN

Robin Cohen has been filling secret diaries with stories and poems since childhood. Since she was nine year old she has written thousands of short stories that weave real life experiences with fictional places and characters. A technology company CEO and Hello Kitty and anime fanatic, Robin tries to find the childish fun in the most serious situations. When she is not writing or bending computers to her will, she is covering in flour baking treats for family and friends.

Born in New York City, Robin is much more of a city mouse than a country mouse. Anywhere without a 24 hour store within one mile and fabulous food and museums is too remote for her. And yet, there is something alluring about daydreaming of the sensuality of the real jungle while living in the urban one.

Grey clouds laugh as I tremble in the cold wind and rain

You catch me up in your strong embrace

Lost between longing and refuge from the storm

Generous soft lips thaw my frozen soul

And dance me into the sheltering arms of the tropical night

I slash my way through the heavy jungle brush

With determination and fear as my sickle and scythe

Alone in the heat of the day

I wonder how long I can survive the struggle

But when the cool night air washes over my skin

And at last we are together again

Your body sings me to sleep

With a song of everlasting peace