Mark DeCartaret

All The More Reason

for Sid Hall

There’s no theme here.

No me to remaster,

stream into the sea.

And nothing to tame

into meter. Not a single

note to sing or miss

having been sung.

If one mentions the rain

again, the air given to

sighs, or returns to

the tine’s rusty sounding,

it’s only for memory’s

sake, this short time--

long enough for the tune

to be named and then

danced to, reminding us

what all days are made

from and what for.

---

Mark DeCarteret's 8th book Props was published by Bee Monk Press this year.

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Janine Certo

After Divorce

Then the foot with its haughty

arch becomes hill with a girl.

Run, run, one finger along

the horizon. Then the shin

with its impossible thin skin,

bone and blood becomes

the acacia trunk, the giraffe

bending to drink. Then

the thigh with its shame

and fat glory of alone, this

beach with no name. Then

the sex, a well, well-oiled,

a cave: Cave of Cyprus,

Cave of Calabria, Cave

of Swimmers—human

figures, limbs contorted—

then the solar plexus, a fire

with a nerve and ganglia,

once scrambling the chest

with panic, now becomes

a staid doe, an American

plain. Then the shoulder

extension, the new arm

and trust like a learned

hand. At last, the neck

with its impulse and cord,

flex, and the head turning

around, turning forward,

turning back to the ear

and eye. Who have you

loved? Pick each one up,

the intelligence of stones,

every navel with its land

and animal memory, split

like a fissure through the scar.

---

Janine Certo is the author of four poetry books, including O Body of Bliss, winner of the Longleaf Poetry Prize (2023); and Elixir, winner of the New American Prize and Lauria/Frasca Prize (New American and Bordighera Press, 2021).

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Tina Cane

Letters From The Sky

When a shell casing from the twenty-one-gun salute at my father's funeral arrives

it will be engraved with his name and relevant dates and given to his next of kin

and when his wife presses it into my hand I will not hold it to my ear to hear waves

breaking like my father's fading drawl a final time on the telephone line I will peer instead

inside its shallow depth to explore its nothingness in search of some residual force or silent

report to insist upon a truth

that war blew apart the man's life to the point

he could barely even watch the news that such a small space should accommodate

a belief as deep as duty is indeed a special kind of magical thinking

for a spent bullet

cannot be anything other than what it is hollow or not all I've got is this ritual and a dad

AWOL for fifty years now finally gone for good

good that I skipped his service

on purpose to be alone with my grief apt that having missed him in life

I should see him now in the sky of my mind drifting like a cloud magical and also good

that he be impervious to bullets flying where energies align with messages beyond my reach

---

Tina Cane is the founder/ director of Writers-in-the-Schools, RI. From 2016-2024, she served as Poet Laureate of Rhode Island where she lives with her husband and three children. Her books include: Once More With Feeling, Body of Work, Dear Elena: Letters for Elena Ferrante, and Year of the Murder Hornet.

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