by Helene Swarts

Light, like spilled milk, spreads
near our feet making little
circles.

Soon the moon
will bring another cast.
Come, let us go
into the garden where soft light
washes the aster.

It is almost evening.
Moist leaves, fat as lungs, turn
toward the wane.

Nothing not even the dark
will cover
what we have done here.

by Helene Swarts

Like orphans dreaming
mothers out of their soup

Like the pauper’s mouth
moving when the rich
man swallows

We expect the moon.

by Helene Swarts

Light no longer colors the leaves,

blending green into grace.

Evil, as unremarkable as ever,

silts over the streams.

Children devoid of messages

catch at the heavy air.

A moment, as still as any, breaks

into particles of sand.

We bury our feet in time,

waiting as always for a heliograph,

a note, a DNA of concern.

by Sydney Lea

Three decades ago, even the Vietnam War
Seemed gone for most of us.  On Memorial Day,
Or Decoration, as our small town’s elders would say,
Fat Micah the plumber stood weeping while Mr. McClure’s
All-Student Band played taps.  The flag was lowered

To halfway down the staff.  I should have known something
By then.  After all, one of my best college friends
Had been blown to pieces out there before we learned
Even where out there was — which got me going
Pretty early in the nonstop ’60s protest happening.

I’ll tell you what: we sure knew how to party.
No, we couldn’t, say, have found My Lai on a map,
So I’ll tell you something else: we were full of crap
In certain respects.  We all turned 70 lately,
Those who remain, that is.  I look at Me

In ’83, and cringe.  I should have been
Tuned in by that year to more than I was as I spied
On Micah, Korea veteran, who stood and cried
On the common, the tears all lost within his chins.
I silently jeered him: He’s just a drunk, his gin’s

What’s bringing on the poor –me act.  I envisioned
The poor slob busting his trousers with all that girth,
Seams blowing out of his army -issue shirt.
There was so much else in the world I could have imagined,
But no one had shot at me, I hadn’t seen anyone

Bleed to death, so I thought he just looked loopy
In that cap that seemed to be melting down his head
Like snow down a roof.  From the bandstand somebody said
The usual boilerplate words about honor and duty.
I stood there that day myself, in love with mockery.

Micah would drink his pancreas away.
Gunfire hadn’t, but the booze knew how to maim him.
His grandson’s just back from Iraq, about the same.
Micah, I wish you could show up here today.
I might have other, better things to say,

If only, minus the irony, your name.