by Kim Groninga

Before you were the red truck
for my father

Before you were the red truck
you were tin snips and saw blades,
pumps and scales and screwdrivers.
You were duct–taped injuries
and loads of wood for the winter.
Before the truck, sideburns curled
around your wing–sized ears
and you were drive–ins and cigarettes.
You were 50’s long car Chrysler
and rollerskates and BB guns.
But you weren’t the red truck.

You weren’t. But you were heavy handwriting
in counter–top notebooks and coffee.
You were folded, buttered toast dipped in milk.
Before the truck, ARMY boots enveloped your ankles
and you were peach circus peanuts and songs sung on cassettes.

From what I remember, you were dark blue coveralls.
You were naps on the couch, one arm bent across your eyes. Just
like me.
You were fish sandwiches and dark glasses and Brylcreem.
You were butterscotch malts.
Aftershave.
Cancer.

Then you were the red truck.
And then you were gone.

by Pam Burr Smith

You walk with your sister,
On a warm blowy beach
sliding sand and bare feet.
Your sister, so much like you,
and so different.
A better walker, for sure.
She could stride forever, while you,
grateful along teeming shore,
stop to admire close sea birds
and marvel at low, muscular waves.
You are even inspired by delicate rivulets
and lowly, glistening seaweed.
You spout words, ask her to see with you.

Hey! Look at this!

She’s kind at first,
stops to share the viewing.
After a while, she can’t hear you
anymore. The waves pound. She’s
too far ahead. She’s counting steps.
Or maybe she’s just tired of looking
at everything. Her goal, a rocky bluff,
is still a mile down the beach.
So you start to talk to your own feet
those faithful dancers, and to the air,
its salty soft breath inspires you
with wonder too strong to pass by,
wonder too strong to be silent.

by Gerry Murphy

One
after Richard Tillinghast

The full moon afloat
in the southern sky.
Its stony Buddha face,
worn away by time
and the boots of astronauts.

Two
in the style of Lorca

Like a child
who has been playing
all day long in the forest,
then appears at your door
asking for her supper:
the moon.

Three

After the rain,
that renewed devotion
to unrequited love:
the eaves for the swallow,
the cat for her own reflection,
the gleaming scythe
for the pale new moon.

Euripides
after Seferis

He grew old
between the theatre and the tavern.
He tried to bamboozle the Gods
with that old sleight–of–hand magic,
he failed.
He was a sour man at heart
with very few friends.
When his time came,
he was torn to pieces
by wild dogs.

Morning
after Pasternak

At first light
tumbrel after tumbrel
rumbles across the cobblestones.
The day gets out of bed,
dresses as an executioner
and hurries to the guillotine.

by Ronald Koertge

You vow not to steal or if you do it’s
for a really good cause.

Also you won’t brag about it or use it
to be the life of the party.

Still, you can’t help showing up places at
the most electrifying, life–saving moments.

The grateful mayor takes you to dinner.
Gives you his private phone number.

Russian scientists capture you, strap you
to a gurney. The probes fall away.

Your laughter is so hideous and mocking
they vow to embrace democracy.

You’re loved for yourself, though,
not because you’re marvelous.

On your honeymoon, you turn yourself
on and off like a light.

Your new wife smiles ruefully. “Stop being
silly now and come to bed.”