by Lucas Pingel

Sometimes when the snake tries to swallow its tail
it succeeds. Let’s get a tattoo of this so we never forget.

Look at the walrus catching every egg
the eggman fires her way. How we identify

in this moment is only temporary. Every bomb
that has ever dropped has always been justified

by somebody, every bullet, every cursed spittle
containing the code to humanity shows no clear

sign of the little monsters inside us. When I’m asked
how many siblings I have, I don’t know

what to say. When I erase him, I feel a little better.
A tiny little murder I nurture into the world

that will eventually grow up. There are days
I can feel how it sits within my throat. There are

other days, like this morning, where I’m fishing
little bits of shell from the bowl of raw eggs

that got there either because of my lack of precision
or because they see themselves as the food, not the waste.

by Lucas Pingel

Try to make room
for unknowing,
see if you can do it
without filling
the holes with guesses.
Recite your
favorite lines of what
you would
have said if you were
quick enough.
It’s easy to lose
yourself in a song,
until the final chord
throws you back
out the airplane door
and into
the wind yet again.
Each time
you fall, it feels faster
than you recall,
the sky and all
of its terror vaster
each time. You’re
simply debris
coming back to earth,
perhaps to be found
or collected or studied
or reunited, or perhaps
left estranged
in an uninhabited field.

by Lucas Pingel

This snow’s got no fight.
The evening’s fresh coat

already running to the gutter.
I wonder if my brother’s

down there sometimes,
just barely out of sight.

None of the ghosts I imagine
ever whisper back, and

I don’t believe anyone
who claims they’ve met one.

Somebody, somewhere
bought a car from my brother

today. The car is the cleanest,
and in the best condition

it will ever be for the rest
of its life. Gradually,

the car will betray the person,
begin to deteriorate, its

floors will grow a bed of cashew
bits and grains of sand. Arias

will hum from the muffler’s throat.
There are better ways to spend

one’s time than rote maintenance.
Winter comes, the roads ice

over in places they never saw
coming. There’s this feeling

we get when we are being tossed
in circles against our will

that is similar to the feeling
of missing someone.

Objects in our vision become
indecipherable streaks of color,

the sound of the air against
our ears is white noise, like

steady running water.

by Robert Hogg

A Clear Communion
for Jeanne Choquette

For less than love
we break
glass together

what contains us
that brittle

Light
sparks
Eyes
dance

Crystal

the liquid
clear as water
shimmers delight

For more than hurt
we mix
blood together

our veins
conceal
the rest