By Jim Daniels

Doublemint Gum
Two, two, two mints in one

I had trouble figuring that slogan out
and yet they wanted me to believe
in three, three, three gods in one.
And that they kept their flavor

forever and lived somewhere far
from Cavity Land. And one
was a bird. And one was born
with no fucking involved.

And that we ate his body and drank
his blood. And the third guy was
all cloud and bluster like a drug–
addicted game–show host.

My grandmother had false teeth
but at least she shared her sugary gum.

By Jim Daniels

half lost, half by accident, I catch myself
looking back over my shoulder, searching
for my grandfather waving from his porch
as he always did till we were out of sight.

Though he’s been out of sight for over thirty
years, and that porch, that house, gone nearly
that long, two houses left on that city block
in Detroit, the rest weeds and rubble

and a few sad bare trees planted by a city
hoping for shade. Before he left,
he bought the vacant lots on both sides
of the house for half of a prayer. Always

the optimist, a farmer for hope, a twenty
pinned to the inside of his shirt, insurance
against having to give up his wallet
one more time. I admit to sadness

at the missing marker of his farewell,
the rocker chained to his wooden porch,
his raised hand fading in distant haze.
Of course, all of our hands drop eventually

but if I just had the porch, I might conjure it,
his hand, that magic butterfly emerging into
the new fields of weeds, wondering, what is
this new strange, wonderful place?

I remember his stage set: bones strategically
placed, a loose chain on the porch
as if the imaginary dog had just stepped inside
for a drink. Beware of Dog, the sign said.

Some nights he even stood out in the dark
calling it home. Oh, even now, I’d still
come running back if called.

By Jim Daniels

She sticks her tongue out in every single photograph.
I’m guessing it’s a response to Smile for the Camera
or Say Cheese, the strained exercise of forced Jollyhood.
Not my place to ask, on the distant Otherside

of the family lineup. My nephew’s lifetime
partner from Out of Townville. She bought
the house he lives in. He painted a giant mural
in the basement, but won’t commit, further.

My father cut her out of the family photo
on his mantle, preferring the odd angled cut
over the tongue. Cat got your tongue?
No, grandpa does. He put it in a box, super–

stitious about tossing it. Who did she stick
her tongue out at first, back in her own
mysterious family? Is it part of a secret vow,
like silence for special monks and nuns?

I can’t speak for my dad. At 95, he can use
his scissors however he wants. I don’t think
I’ve seen another tongue more frequently
and in such juicy detail. I might have to give up

French kissing if I keep thinking about it.
My father took a Spanish class back
in the Middle Ages. He wants to know how
much that old textbook might be worth.

Before she died, my mother told me just
about everything, including how she taught
my uncle how to kiss. TMI, I said.
Three Mile Island? she said.

How many years since my father kissed
anyone on the lips, much less tongued?
He’s always kept his own counsel. He still
trims his nose hairs with the trimmer

we gave him as a joke thirty years ago.
I didn’t startle when I saw the cut photo.
Do I want to look at that tongue every time
I pass through the living room? he asked.

On the other side of the mantle, my mother
smiles in the tiara she wore only on special
occasions. Though she was no saint,
my mother. She had a tongue on her.

By James Reidel

The Redaction
after Cavafy

The tetrarch paused and raised both hands so that his entourage had to a stop behind him, all save twin sisters who still carried his long towel like a train, for they had been blinded at birth so as to knead white skin like fresh dough without casting those smiles from the south. One stumbled against his arm and her bare breast brush his elbow. Then all stood still. Only the court eunuch motioned, an entreaty to prompt the next aphorism, which his master wanted for his histories, in a meter suited for demotic sensibilities. Before him ran the long mosaic, which meandered from the baths to the castle. His various cities along the river, their names in Greek, each represented by one or two of their
famous buildings, the, great lighthouse with its flame lit by tiny yellow stones, the dome of the library that resembled a goat’s teat. Then the tetrarch pointed to the river, whose brown waters glistened in depiction, set in lapis, unlike itself even under the bluest skies. But it was impossible for the eunuch to follow his master’s gaze, biting a stylus, hurriedly smearing a wax tablet with both thumbs, from AN EMPIRE ONLY EXTENDS AS FAR AS ITS WORMS to THERE PALESTINA/THERE GOD FIGHTS
HIS COCKS.