by Megan Grumbling

appears between our weekly beers
one afternoon. It’s small, but has some weight
to it — cast iron, solid, and as plain
as our own hands. He and I heft and hold
it, pass it back and forth, delight
in how damn good it feels to grip, to lift.
Then all at once, he slides the thing across
to my side of the table, nods, and leaves
it there, making it mine for good: a tool
I’ll reach for whether I have need to make,
to mend, or to delight. His gift reveals
such useful beauty, such beautiful use
in almost anything, even this plain
but heavy thing between our weekly beers.

by Kevin Sweeney

          “What thou lov’st well shall not be reft from thee”
                    Ezra Pound, Pisan Cantos, LXXXI

It’s unAmerican to die. You’re supposed to be
in yoga class. You’re supposed to know what
“Namaste” means. You’re supposed to be training
for a marathon. At least a half –marathon.

You should be running in place while waiting
in line. You don’t want to waste a minute of
training for the future. There’s always a future
in America. We’re all moving forward, reading
the June edition in May, January in December.
It’s already a new year.

It’s more unAmerican to die young, and everybody
is always young in America though young gets
older every year. Your contemporaries read obits
like box scores, trying to discern a strategy: hit and
run, steal second, maybe third, but never home. Don’t
swing at bad pitches, smoke cigarettes, pile up carbs.

Even then, no guarantee. You get a good look at the
fastball but swing too soon. The last pitch is high
heat, impossible to make contact. If only
you hadn’t swung early.

Other poets say nice things after you’re gone
(“thy true heritage”). Your name appears on
rewards for those who remind them of you:
They remember what “thou lovest well.”

They know it’s unAmerican to die, to die young,
but poets are apostates who understand America,
palpable and seen, isn’t right about everything
or everybody, that Elysium awaits. Elsewhere.

by Baron Wormser

On Chandler Street in Baltimore a brick house
With a sectioned cement sidewalk, a maple tree,
A privet hedge, a rusting swing set.
I hold my breath but time rushes toward me.

                *

On Chandler Street in Baltimore an old man
Gestures from a porch, his face bleak
With anger. “Goddamn you twice!” he hollers.
We stop our game of step ball, laugh till we shriek.

                *

On Chandler Street in Baltimore the TV
Chirps like an electric cricket through the night.
“Suez Canal,” I hear and wonder how
The earth can spin yet remain upright.

                *

On Chandler Street in Baltimore it rains
To end the world, then ceases. I go outside
And begin to splash in puddles — stomp, splat,
Stomp, splat. My life will not be denied.

by Catherine Fisher

now that you’re not
here anymore

that we can see

we can see you
were both here
and there
all along.

belonging to everyone
as we all
belong to everyone

and between the worlds
as we are all
between the worlds.

your life —
    lived in offering
your body —

    now grouped of grateful souls

make you here
and
there
and
always,

amen.