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Part 1 Contributors

 

Rae Armantrout
Bart Edelman
David Garyan
Suzanne Lummis
Glenna Luschei
Bill Mohr
D. A. Powell
Amy Uyematsu
Paul Vangelisti
Charles Harper Webb
Bruce Willard
Gail Wronsky

Part 2 Contributors

Elena Karina Byrne
liz gonzález
Grant Hier
Lois P. Jones
Ron Koertge
Glenna Luschei
Rooja Mohassessy
Susan Rogers
Patty Seyburn
Maw Shein Win
Kim Shuck
Lynne Thompson
Carine Topal
Cecilia Woloch


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Click to enlarge picture Glenna Luschei
Glenna Luschei
Californian Poets Part 1: Four Poems
by
Glenna Luschei


 

 



Mourning Doves

When Bill died we turned into doves.
I call them the Bill and Glenna doves.
They call back, their morning gargle.
They mess up the bird feed,
splash water out of the bath.
We were like that. Anything for a laugh.

When they run off on errands
I don’t fret. We’ll meet up, fly together.

Zenaida Macroura



Daughters-in-law

My daughter in-law doesn’t look
twice before she jumps on a bus blasting merengue.
She trusts the chiva will butt her where she needs to carry on
the revolution.
She doesn't look like me.
Why should she with my hair that resembles Grey Poupon,
even the gray part?

Her hair is black as a raven’s wing and her eyes click like castanets.
She is not ladylike as we learned to be, crossing our patent leather shoes
so boys couldn’t see the reflection from under our skirts.
She treats boys with fierceness, not fear,
offers a gang member tattooed and pierced a ride
home through rival territory.
Kindness and bravery: her watchwords.
She forced the bus driver swerving through Colombian mountains
to stop to let the passengers knock on a hut to use the bathroom.
The driver wanted to shoot her down but she was a quicker draw.

Back in the US she nearly performed a citizen's arrest
on the waiter slow to serve a Mexican family.
Best of all, she inspires my grandchildren to treat me, their abuela,
second only to la Virgin de Guadalupe.

What miracle did I perform to merit a daughter- in- law like this,
plus the Sicilian one who serves cannoli for Christmas?
That one tells me some day she'll take me to her native Sicily.
Arm-in-arm we’ll walk through the piazza in our black skirts,
shiv at the garter.

I did the right thing by my sons, though when Dominica and I
drive through Skid Row on the way to the Mission, I flinch
when she offers my son’s overcoat, to a man freezing on the corner.
She says, “He needs it worse.”

I’d like to return to Sicily where in antiquity
my own kind, the Cyclops worked as smithys.
People identify me by my third eye.

I can see it all now.
After my long life, I need those women worse.



Poseidon sent the whale, Cetus, to destroy
the shores of ancient Greece.

Calving

Scientists call Tahlequah's care for her dead calf unprecedented
but isn't it natural to carry the dead with us, lift them up as she did,
all 800 pounds of her baby, only rising to take a breath, lifting?

On our endangered earth, we, tentative with life, ponder,
"How can the orcas survive when we net their fish, plow boats
into their mating grounds? Can this pod, with only one live birth, go on?”

Massive glacial calves crash into the sea. Ablation and evaporation.
Polar bears lose their footing.

Our calves die of addiction, bullets, transmission of love. We lift them up,
keep them floating with us.

On our last Mother's Day I visited hospice. You asked me
to feed you. After, I wheeled you under the purple jacaranda trees.
Bloom and death. Eros and Thanatos.

You told me the nurse loved to brush your flaxen hair.
"God gave me a mane." You handed me the brush and I took your curls in hand.
"Tomorrow is my quality of life conference." I kept on brushing.
You had to decide.

You loved the stories of the gods and goddesses.
Eros had to choose. Psyche blinded her lover.

Oh Aphrodite, you knew my beautiful daughter and her vanity.
Lend her your brush, your mirror.



The Fifty-Two Year Cycle of the Aztec Calendar Stone

This poet who fancies herself Sherlock
envisions the ghost of her nemesis, Moriarty
embedded in the Aztec calendar stone.

So we meet again, Moriarty.
You handsome and hefty, all fifty pounds of basalt.
You knew the man I loved and kept him from me.
You called him Cipactli. In Nahautl that means dragon.
My name was Zochitl, flower.

Your language sounds like the water in which you tried to drown me
at Pie de la Cuesta. Always water, always children, always in Spanish,
your ghost comes to haunt me, to taunt me.
You taught me duende, told me I was a fighter worthy
of your wrath, told me my heart would get me.

Fifty-two years ago they sent a diver out after me.
The waves tossed me but I could still see my son on the shore.
Thrashing, I watched him getting smaller and smaller,
I couldn’t drown.
I had to drive him to Little League ten years later
in a town where we had not yet lived.
I gave that swimmer my last hundred pesos, sodden, hidden in my bra.

Next time on the Rio Grande,
birth of a daughter in El Paso, deep vein thrombosis.
I ran the household from a wheelchair. I had cases to solve.
You’re playing with me, Moriarty. You wanted to save me for yourself.

I should have known we would meet in Cuba,
when I bit the dust in Matanzas. The doctor said I would die if I got on that plane.
One week in hospital, my son flew me home first class.
Your ghost loved that, Moriarty. If only I could wait fifty-two more years,
I know you’d give me one more scare.