by Dan Gerber

I have let you all go. Why do you keep returning,
as if there were something left unsaid,

something I can’t bring to mind? A feeling
is only a feeling experienced in a

very particular way, a moment we
reach for as it fades, leaving us only

a taste, but a taste we now have a tongue for,
as a young king might don a cloak to circulate,

unrecognized, among his soldiers, to know
their mettle, their fears, and fraught loves,

while enduring a long night before battle,
I move among you and you among

the many selves I assume every day,
sensing what comes and goes in these trees.

by Robert Carr

At the VA, Dad picks
Monster Green
when handed the color chart.

A nurse measures
trembling thighs. The seat
is custom, titanium

frame, all-terrain.
I’m startled
by his spine, a question

poured in wheels.
He points out passing
residents. That one was

at the shoe factory
out in Dexter. That guy
built ships in Bath.

There’s my friend, Don.
He flew trout bums
up the Allagash. His father

was a shoe guy too,
a paid-by-the-sole stitcher.
Fastest one around,

they say. A woman,
wearing a purple turban
and bedazzled blouse,

winks and spins
into the sunroom.
She’s a piece of work.

by Robert Carr

We settle at our deuce
beside the brick oven,
order the usual glasses
of Sauvignon Blanc,

a pizza with pepper
and mushroom.
On the drink menu,
a concoction called

Berry me in Bourbon–
Jack, blackberry
liquor with a twist.
Sounds delicious!

I want it bad, but only
allow myself to drink
bourbon with one
special friend.

You worry I’ll become
your mother.
She carried a thermos
of Johnnie, shared

a backseat Manhattan
with girlfriends
on her way to Lucia’s.
In the conversation

with myself,
I keep changing rules.
Maybe if I think
about my special

friend, I can pour
a highball when
you’re not around.
I’m happy today,

in the life we’ve created.
You stare into open
flame, smashed bottle
in the distance.

My mind, as always,
turns to parting.
Don’t die first.
I fear the day

your mother’s ghost
no longer hovers,
no longer chews the crust
in your tense jaw.

by Robert Carr

I set up at the Hens and Heirlooms market,
dress my tables with unworn sarongs,

display my wears. A wooden crib in cracked
white paint, Shirley Temple with a glass

eye that never opens. In her lap,
a mother of pearl handled magnifier.

The view fills with vendors. Beside me,
a baker unpacks warm zucchini bread

In another aisle, a child’s blonde braid
sways over a pink tee. The flag on her back,

black with tattered edges. She turns.
TRUMP emblazoned at her budding.

Damn my mind, the scent of yeast, these
uninvited images—Well, that’s about the age,

I reckon. A breeze rises. Dresses turn
on hooks at the clothing dealer, strawflower

chokes in the chicken wire wall of autumn
wreaths. Through clear though churning skies—

a powder of aspen leaves. The yellows
twist and fall, a pageant of little girls.