by Andrea Blancas Beltran

You never told me
            You were leaving
When I asked.

You just propped up
            Your fishing pole
            By the front door,
Waited for      the perfect day.

All these years of knowing
             My heart
And its grave –digging fear of loss —
You chose simply
To not            respond.

You didn’t spare me.
Or the fish.

by Andrea Blancas Beltran

I knew a bird could sing
but I never knew a bird
            had a song
until you.

The ease of your laugh,
the way you crossed
            your legs
while enjoying tea       and discussing
poetry               according to the world
            and poetry
            according to us,
red tulips with yellow hearts,
and how I needed to talk
            to myself more.

You made it all
            look so easy.
Even the dust on the cracked window sill
had a perfect place       on your page —
how you made it look so glorious.

When I write
            I think of you

and wonder:
Would this be good enough
for Jack?

by Sandee Lyles

We drift along and fail to notice
What floats by much of the time
Up and down, up and down
We bob and grab for big stuff

Likely miss more subtle bits
Then bump into one once in a while
It was Jack who said,
“I see you there.”

He took the bite out of wind
The burn out of sun
The sting out of salt
And skipped his heart across our ocean

by W.E. Butts

There’s a Buddha on my desk,
and he’s laughing.
We of the West believe
if you rub the Buddha’s belly,
good fortune is certain.
But none of this matters
tonight at the pool hall,
here with a friend —
his shrewd eye and steady hand.
Again, my shot
misses its intention,
and I’m moving inevitably
toward some final chance.

The Buddha was a gift
from my wife.
I believe she meant it
to point out the way
to be different from the self
is to be the self.

For example, the sly
yet generous – hearted manner
with which my friend approaches
the green table and stands,
for a moment,
like a Chinese monk
meditating at the edge
of a quiet field,
is exactly who he is.

He understands
what’s important
is more than knowing
what will happen next;
that paying attention
is how we come to the small globe
about to spin away from us,
and call it “safe.”

“Eight Ball” was previously published in The Aurora, and was reprinted
in Sunday Evening at the Stardust Café (First World Library, 2006).