By Alisha Goldblatt

By the airport where jet engines riff and fly

humdrum in the background, you’ll find the

cutting room floor. There’s bloody gauze and
extractors on hand, eerily cheerful nurse–escorts

shuttling the wounded out of the lot. Their heads

are wrapped in ice diapers to ward off the swells

One after one they exit without those
hard vestiges to remind them where they began,

when chewing was a job for the decisive hunter. After

coming back to consciousness (the stupor itself an

outtake cut clean from the film), my daughter woke
laughing, drank texting until I took the phone and

righted the gobbledygook of fat, anesthetized thumbs.

She quiet–roared with a mouth that wouldn’t open wide,

a little girl growing soberer and soberer. Already she
was missing the drugs and those nubs in the back of the

mouth, ancestral and taken from her just as she

begins to cut her teeth on this very knife–edge of life.

By Alisha Goldblatt

Insurrection may take many forms, but
a son rose to full height when

still in plain sight was his
father’s shouting hat and double barrel

shotgun —
nothing but a proxy for his lagging dick —

the very same member,
tip of the spear,

that fertilized the egg
who, once cracked and grown,

weaponized his own cell phone.
Traitors get shot

Dad texted his own children,
swearing the riot was a preface

to lawmakers held by the hair, their
skulls clattering down the granite

steps. This man who had held
his son’s head and studied each

vein and eyelash, hip–checked
all playful, told oil–rig stories.

When parentage sewed him into
a fold, he sliced the stitches clean.

By Tim Seibles

Bend in the Light Blues Villanelle
in two voices

There’s a bend in the light that no one can see
Been wiping the windshield all day with a rag
And you talk to yourself for company

Can’t stand half the shit they put on TV
I fight off the noise but feel like I been fragged
There’s a bend in the light that nobody sees

I bet it was better to be in the trees
Than to get yourself got in the noose of a flag
So I vote for myself for company

You ast real nice, even said pretty please
But still find yourself at the club twerking stag
There’s a trend in the light that you see that you see

One a’ these days I got to be free!
Or should I just move to the moon
And sing to yourself for company

If they ast me I’d prolly give life a D
What’s a word for a ghost in the night playing tag?
Don’t you reach thru the light that no one can see?

Wonder what happened to my gris–gris?
They burned off my heart and left me the slag
Maybe day brings the night for company

Wish I could give it all away for free
Just tired of being left holding the bag

I think it’s a bend in the light that you see
So you chew through yourself for company

By Tim Seibles

Mostly, I keep my terror discreet —
Try not to think about death all the time
But sometimes I think I might die in my sleep

Got my eyes closed, but I might take a peek
Been tellin myself that it’s gonna be fine
That’s how I keep my terror discreet

You do what you can to maintain your mystique
To be here or not: there’s such a fine line
(Who ever said I won’t die in my sleep? )

Ever feel like your soul sprung a leak —
And wander around touchin stuff like you’re blind?
My mom always kept her terror discreet

I try to be like her: that stoic, that sweet
Why not shut–up and just scream like a mime?
But how do you know who might die in your sleep?

This war in Ukraine got me feelin oblique
I think I see why people pray all the time
They’re tryin to keep the terror discreet

Don’ wanna surrender, but I gotta retreat
I’ll hide in the words that burn up my mind
How else can I keep this madness discreet?

Might just give up and go live on the street
Or get me a Rolls and sip a good wine

That way I’d keep my terror discreet
But what’ll I do if I die in my sleep?