by George Economou

The Girl in the Gown
          for A. E. Stalling

What I learned at a prom, not in a class,
dancing in the dark, holding what I knew,
it’s the girl in the gown gives it its class.

I may have been callow, may have been crass,
but I never forgot, never outgrew
what I learned at that prom, before in class.

True content wears form like filling a glass,
content poured anew or as an old brew,
like the girl in the formal radiates class.

Though long gone’s the corsage and the band’s brass,
eye will testify, throat do and redo
what I learned at the prom, not in a class.

If asked to teach it you’ll never surpass
the best you can do that’s mere déjà–vu

of what’s learned at a prom for the whole class.

So take it right here and not for a pass,
that’s what to pursue, there’s nothing in lieu
of learning at a prom, not in a class,
that the girl in the gown gives it its class.

by Rochelle Owens

In this story
ripening on the vine   so to speak

In this story   a warhol–like
playfulness

a vinyl fruit of desire
teasing femme / homme

bringing millions to their knees

In a dream of a hermaphrodite
in silhouette

her / his body
elegant the fusion of human and bird

vertical   horizontal
l’amour impossible   l’amour possible

the physical poetic
iridescent her pelvis   his / her body

spiritual /carnal
inside a dark purple fruit

the core divided
In a dream of a boy warrior

with bright red lips
her skin   berries and apricots

diaphanous   floating
languid the tendrils of pubic hair

a flush of wet hot air burning
her neck and face

Sorcery of his female brain

In this story   a warhol–like
playfulness

teasing femme / homme
her teeth overlapping   licking

a clot of blood
A hunter gatherer   meat   nuts   fruit

his platinum blond curls
bringing millions to their knees

Love of the hermaphrodite
like a white swan

her hollow bones   sculpted   delicate
elegant the fusion

of human and bird
his hollow bones glowing under

a black light
magnetic her hollow bones

glowing in the dark
Meek sweetness the face the face

of the hermaphrodite   teasing femme / homme
Out of the hole of Baudelaire

emerging from the mists of Cumae
A long curved fingernail

tracing a circle   a cleft   tracing
the pink mauve folds
tracing the flower vulva

the mother misery   the father terror
a slit in the stalk   blood seeping

carnal /spiritual
green and pale the scrotal lily

In this story a   warhol–like
playfulness

a vinyl fruit of desire
teasing femme / homme

bringing millions to their knees

by David Cope

we walk thru his rooms, sit where he sat, tell stories —
the wild ride back from Hana, his teenage self scaling
Long’s Peak on the front face where none now climb,
hiking beneath Tahquamenon, vision thru falling water,
the eagles trailing the boat a mile from shore —
the silences are deep, hollow, empty,
sometimes we slip & speak of him in the present.

out his windows the line of browned peaks
rises against the clear sky.
the saguaros are in bloom,
acacia throw out bright petals.

the mirror casts backward thru ancestors
toiling land & turning lathes, scripture ever in their hands —
Quaker faces lit with simple gifts,
always the shadow in the corner of the eye,
the evening dance turning, passing time & light,
beloved who bears one from the dark
wrapped in blankets beneath the still moon.

I am
rapt, shaken, & he
is with me, looking out thru my eyes, his hand
my hand in the garden, cutting, giving life, yet he
is not here,
a breeze in the acacia, then silence.
how swaddle myself
with blankets long vanished & recall a father’s eye
overlooking my child–sleep?

by David Cope

the room is silent, empty but
            for the bier. she lies, sheet
draped over her body —

            she is so small in death —

            the head tilted back, eyelids,
aquiline nose, cupid’s bow lips, skin
            translucent, alabaster

            yet still lovely — we are

in tears. my lips touch her
            forehead goodbye — cold,
heat & struggle all

            gone in the waiting day.