by Stelios Mormoris

Was it lover, or brother
or impossible friend

who lies here
under the gray stone?

A single tear
reflects a sliding moon

absorbed by her black veil.
She turns

into the circular current
of the bay abutting

to smother a cry
floating away

through a dripping comb
of willow trees.

Blackbirds on the pier
consider flight,

rustling their layers
while she freezes

like alabaster
in the echo of a vestibule

circled by cameos
and heirloom stares —

whose fissures down
the disfigured faces

of stoic mothers
and grandmothers

belie the love
underneath the cool

porcelain, aquiline
noses, and cast

lacework and hair.
Bells climb.

She slaps her face
then steps down

into the canal
of mourners teeming

with private litanies.
Brittle leaves

of pin oaks
detach like dismayed

hands, and land
on her hair and cling.

by Stelios Mormoris

her blurred eyeshadow

blush of dawn as forgiven promise,
the bus ride to work,
passengers jumbled awake at a stop sign askew

the poor student I was,
crumpled cash in the pocket
and drill of being hungry

the smell of matted grass
on the knees of my jeans after praying on the lawn

and the sting of the slap on my palm
to the surge of applause

the day my mother scolded me
in a deep wine–soaked voice
on a humid evening thickened by her lanolin
that I’ll be lucky to get out

staring long into the shot of a shiny new penny
minted the year of my birth
soaring in the eye
of Chagall’s red ceiling swirling

a bird caught in the updraft
of his lyrical farewells,
singing to the shell of my childhood house,
to the circle of brother & sisters,
and the parents I buried who stain the fields —
to the dogs I loved,
who sprout crocus through the snow —
and now as I write on this winter morning,
to the stubble of broken grass
I walk through at a loss

while aqua lights of dotted runways
hum me to sleep
those work–packed years I flew
across longitudes, which too

I miss

and so go on and sing my song, small
as the private litter
of pallid photos I sort through,

living the refrain of kinder days
as my partner and I
settle into lichen–covered wooden chairs
with the need to speak less and less

while scurried leaves and vapors of coffee
have a busy random conversation

and at our feet dogs curl in on themselves
easily, live in the here,
miss whoever walks away

and to our backs the cedar shingles turning gray
are still nothing to miss

yet I still answer the phone in an even voice
and jump at the idea that
on the other end of the unanswered ring
fearful of silence, fearful of death,
it is you.

by Carol Townsend

You would think that you, Old Nasty
Garment, was his girlfriend by how

he wraps himself in you, and you, cut
off at the elbows, stretched out of shape,

disgusting in your daily crust of break–
fast, lunch, and dinner. So tattered,

torn and stained, Suds Sucker, shame
on you for turning my husband into

a geezer. For that, you will not be for–
given. To tell the truth, I do glare at him

when he tries to sneak out of the house
attired in you. When I hear the garbage

truck round the corner, I cajole him
to do the deed himself. Like a pet about

to be put down, you might be consoled
that way. But no, he refuses. Be assured

that I am not jealous for I am not being
dumped for a decrepit pullover. After all,

my skin is more lovely than your sallow
complexion. But, don’t let him know that

I tolerate you out of the fear, Oh Ancient
Adversary, that one day I will find my

nose buried deep in you, breathing him
in, remembering fondly his past foibles.

by Carol Townsend

Do not fault the ancient Whirlpool
washer for my loss of hue. The blame

for my dinginess lies with you, oh,
Beloved One, who dribbles pea soup,

maple syrup, chocolate milk down
my front, which leads to rough scrub–

bing by that wife of yours, from whom
you must do more to protect me, my

biggest fear being that when you are
not looking, she will bury me at the

bottom of the garbage tote, or worse
yet, cut me up for dust rags, the ultimate

humiliation. Either way, I will pass
into ignominy. Yet, I forgive you, Loyal

Buddy, because I do not know which
of us keeps the other warm during

these cold nights when you wear me
to bed. And thanks for losing weight,

which makes me stretch less, perhaps
adding years to my life. Who knows

what I would do without you, Dear
Friend, especially with your wife giving

me the old side–eye while holding
in her hands a sharp pair of scissors.