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I’m scared of aviator glasses by Catherine Kiernan
I’m scared of aviator glasses
and the glinting glare in their silver rims,
the wide frames carrying their long, jabby arms
that loop over your ears,
Lesson at Birch Bay by Adria Libolt
On the beach, I gather clam shells with cousins
discarding cracked remnants.
Dad calls for the swimming lesson,
I dread, dig my feet in sand, covered, stuck
Waves wash over my excuse,
leaving no trace.
I lie shivering stiff in salty warm
shallow waters of Birch Bay, Dad’s hand
under my back assuring me I can float.
Lot, As Told By Benny The Browne’s Point Wino by Robert Lashley
Touch the water, and taste your hand.
Touch my sea and feel its bile.
Tend the surface of this holy water
that I wrecked before I burned.
His salt and mine, his last command
I could not stride to follow.
A condiment of his rage, I drowned my sorrow
before he could throw me in the fire.
I Erase What I See by Celeste Schueler
I bought my daughters kaleidoscopes
From a toy shop in Seattle.
An Indigenous totem pole stands in Pioneer Square
Among the trees and buildings.
I saw you speaking with blue in your mouth
I wanted to kiss it out. To take that blue and […]
Mother’s Backyard by Elisa Peterson
Mother’s backyard was groomed,
except for the fenceless perimeter
where wild blackberries loomed
seven feet tall.
Every year she would cut them back.
Every year they grew back, with a
vengeance, calling to mind science
fiction tales – carnivorous plants
who devoured their humans, slowly.
Why, I wondered, didn’t she call in
the experts to kill them? […]
Ground 2 Sound
On March 1, 2024, Tacoma turned out at the Ground 2 Sound Festival to show the impact and intersections of art and activism, and to focus on the crucial importance of clean waters in our Puget Sound Region. Read the selected pieces and honorable mentions from our themed call!
In Tacoma’s Winter by Cat Melaunie
In Tacoma's winter, bright and rainy grace,
A tale unfolds in each raindrop's embrace.
Tacoma Elf Storage, a festive sight,
The mystery continues to fervent delight […]
Peace With the Wild by Tyrean Martinson
Not for man's conventions but
For the peace with the wild,
I practice sitting still–
For mornings on my back deck
To watch the soft rabbit in the grass
And the yearling buck who steps slow
Out of wood's edge to curl
Into a bed of clover he nibbles […]
Because bullets fly at second graders by Meghan Feuk
the world is a dangerous
place to love a child
I am reckless
to want their future
above water
to not write
their identification
on their backs
in permanent ink […]
To Henderson Bay Will I Go by Dawn Ellis
I will arise now and go to Henderson Bay,
to the old, shingled cabin with sun-worn decking,
and mice that run through sunbeams, across the top of the couch.
A sleeping porch will I have there, windowed with sheets
of plastic, where the music of the creek underneath
and the sound of waves lapping on the beach float in.
And I shall have the peace of lazy summer days spent
with my younger sisters and brother, urging, “Jump! Jump!”
Swinging out from the bulkhead, on the knotted rope,
I will drop into the frigid salt water at high tide.
I will sputter at the cold. My sisters and brother will applaud.
My best friend, Michelle Ledbetter, will caution me,
“Careful of the spikes.” I will climb with Michelle,
up onto the old, wrecked barge, washed up down the way.
Eating the Heart That Gives Out in Fear by Samantha Melamed
We left in a hurry so there’s nothing left for you in the housebut if you look out the window you can see the encroaching flamesgutting the town along their warpathsave the only church still standing on Ash Street
At noon you count the bulbous heads of the dandelionsat 3pm the sparrows line up on the telephone wires across the street
Not to Blame My Hair by Dawn Ellis
My hair is naturally curly now.
It never has been before.
When my children were young,
When I was a single, working mother,
When I delivered my children
To their father every other weekend
And spent those weekends missing the kids,
And planted myself on the couch, watching movies,
My hair was straight . . . and flat.
A Simple Joy by Carl “Papa” Palmer
This man was reading in his room~ William Wordsworth
My last hour each day
as I hit the hay
is unwinding time
relaxing as I’m
feeding my obsession.
Why I Married the House Carpenter by Elizabeth Beck
A phantom is always easier to chase/The chill always easier than/warm sheets on summer nights. Wrapped in the comfort of your distant interest and cold vows/The ghost of your jawline against the very present curve/of my cheek and I can almost smell you lingering in the doorway/The prickling wind, heavy/with tidal changes, delivering/then casting
off
away
I am the anchor, I am the sturdy mast to which you are lashed