Derek Dew

Understanding the Arena

Light was let all the way in

Eventually I noticed the bra

Near the cactus in the corner

Of the yellow lawn & then

My gaze rose up the thorns

Until I saw a pair of panties

Hanging from the cactus itself

High sun over the dead car

Blue but rusted at the fenders

As though it were baring its teeth

In the driveway at the end of the porch

Where the knife pa gave me lay

After I had stuck it into the board

Left it vertical then he walked by

Tossed his foot to kick it away

I looked at him drawing his breath

He turned to me & that was all for awhile

Adapting to the Arena

The men were leaning

On the cinderblock wall

Speaking in low tones

To each other with eye contact

While nodding towards ma

Who was walking next to me

About to step into the corner store

But when I saw them see her

I decided to wait outside

So I could hear them talk

Watch them smoke laugh & spit

I tried to finish their sentences

In my head but was unable to

When ma walked out the store

They got quiet looking at her

They saw me & I realized

If I could be wanted like her

I could escape being like them

Overcoming the Arena

When the forty ounce

Was handed to me just enough

Of the green glass peaked

Above the brown paper bag

For a little moonlight to reflect

While one of the boys questioned

Whether or not I would be able

To lift it to my mouth being

Young small skinny as I was

I held the bottle with both hands

I raised its bottom high

I began to tap my fingers

On its side like I was playing

The trumpet & everybody laughed

While malt liquor poured into me

Older girls older boys everybody

I had made them all laugh

But ocean thrashed in front of us

& I was not confident

I was worried

So I appeared ready

---

Derek Thomas Dew is a neurodivergent, non-binary poet. Derek’s debut poetry collection “Riddle Field” received the 2019 Test Site Poetry Prize from the Black Mountain Institute/University of Nevada.

toc

next

Raphael Kosek

In the Room with Saint Augustine

Sometimes the spoons are filled with despair

at the breakfast table

and the bowls howl

their one long low note

Did I tell you (after she died)

I never missed my mother?

After she died

Overhear other woman missing their mothers

Do I believe them?

Yes Not really

Maybe

I’m jealous

(The wallpaper weeps)

Sometimes when the night crawls by

Under the moon’s raw blade, the bottle

Grows understandable

Good night

Good girl

(I mean to wake up)

Did I tell you times come

When I hate poetry?

So impractical

Disturbs the psyche

Better to plow a field

But then the trees

Their sway

Their reach

Even their sere cackling

How they lift

To the blazing blue

with its clouds heaving

Believe everything all over again

At the breakfast table

A Calm Madness

“ . . . I sought wisdom . . . in poems and also a certain calm madness.” Adam Zagajewski

Mozart surely felt it and tried to annihilate

that stolid fervor in his Requiem

and the birds churn it when dawn’s pallor

sieves the trees. It’s there when enlightenment

baptizes the confused brow of the seeker.

If you weep at the wood thrush’s song,

you are stung by it. And it simmers in

the horse’s eye, though the breath is soft

with sun and hay. For some it is the blue of far

mountains and the sea’s restless grieving.

Caravaggio found it in the violent

light emboldening human flesh for all

to behold. For such beauty, you have

to be mad. Or it would kill you.

Bluebirds

The air is wet with moist heat on this clouded

late May day.

I’m not sure if it’s welcoming

or not. If I had to say, I think it tastes like grief even

though the birds are going about their business

as usual and my heart still beats. The bluebird house

in the back yard remains empty after

my beloved and I tacitly agreed

to purge the wren’s 6 tiny brown eggs

in her lovingly piled

pyramid of twigs, hoping for the brighter beauties.

I watched his hand clasp the nest

and toss it into the woods. Earlier this week

a child smeared herself with another’s

blood to avoid the gunman’s ire. I think

it is going to rain if it makes its mind up

and there will be no bluebirds

in this house of death.

---

Raphael Kosek is the author of AMERICAN MYTHOLOGY (Brick Road Poetry Press) and two prize-winning chapbooks, HARMLESS ENCOUNTERS (2022) and ROUGH GRACE (2014).

toc

next

Kai Jensen

Brief siblings

1.  A brother

A big man in a motley top

dogs me through Ikea.

First we share a slot

in the big revolving

door – Hej! – and when

I reach the men’s toilet

he’s already there

ablaze with colours

and later at the head

of the cafeteria queue

then chooses a table

three rows away,

facing mine, his big

ruddy head, with its bald

spot peeking through, bent

over a plate of meatballs.

I wonder whether he’s aware

that we’re entangled, briefly

bonded in some quantum way.

On any given day

in any public setting

there’s almost always

one such karmic sibling;

what’s the bet he snaffles

the last two-by-two gloss-

white Kallax flatpack

on the pallet in aisle 9?

But then I see him

held up in the toy section

dancing to entertain a child

like a clumsy bear.

2.  A sister

Waiting for my toastie

in the wintry air

I watch you pacing

briskly, your funky

boots and electric hair

and feel my family’s itch

to speak to strangers,

form a bond, quick

and deep as superglue

but then regret, fall out,

fight or kill by neglect

etcetera. And so

I inspect my own shoes

and later, carrying

takeaway cups to the table

find I’ve gone off you

walking erratically

in front of me, oblivious

caught up in some intensity

I might have bought into

just plain in the way.

Another bodhisattva

Someone has to watch the cabin crew

act out the safety instructions

so I do, looking past the bouffant hair

of the tall guy two rows ahead.

I’m rewarded when the nearest steward,

older, with a simple bob,

suddenly lights up – it’s show time!

Blissfully she clips and tightens the seatbelt;

releasing it is a vast freedom.

The oxygen mask dangles like exotic fruit

or a Christmas tree ornament and she’s

an ecstatic child. Roguishly

she dons the frayed lifejacket

for a fancy-dress ball, shares the joke

of its whistle with us and struts

proudly down the aisle, acknowledging

non-existent applause, turning her head to check

that we’ve taken her point: this humdrum

commuter flight goes to paradise.

---

Kai Jensen was born in Philadelphia, as a child emigrated to New Zealand with his family, and is now an Australian. Kai lives and writes at Wallaga Lake on the Far South Coast of New South Wales.

toc

next