“Still, We Tell the Tales”: Introducing Poet Gale Walden
A year ago, I received an email from one of my British cousins, who’d read in the prominent London Review of Books an essay by someone named Gale Walden about David Foster Wallace. The essay mentions that the author and Wallace had met in the MFA Program at University of Arizona in 1985, where, at the time, I was doing a Ph.D. “It’s a beautiful essay,” my cousin wrote. “Did you know her?” In fact, it’s a gorgeous, evocative, and mournful essay about the possibility of a relationship that was lost in the physical and psychic distance between two people who loved each other. “Yes,” I wrote my cousin, “I did know her. Still do.” I am so pleased to introduce her to Persimmon Tree readers as this issue’s Guest Editor for the Middle States poetry feature. Where has the time gone?
Gale Walden is one of those unique writers who writes well in at least four genres that I know of, the fourth being that necessary genre, the critical review, for which one receives little credit but which generously offers a great service to other writers. That last remark actually characterizes something essential about Gale, not simply that she is creatively large and contains multitude (pace Whitman), but that she is at once her own person and other-oriented. Kind. Brave. Thoughtful. Honest. Determined. When her attempt to walk the whole Camino de Santiago last year ended in serious injury, she healed over the winter, and completed the Way this past summer.
In my book, that’s serious devotion. Gale modestly describes herself as a “trained advocate, a mother, a daughter, and a believer that ‘helpers,’ as Mr. Rogers calls them, are everywhere.”
Gale’s fiction has been included in The Best American Fiction and won the Boston Review Annual Fiction Prize. Her nonfiction has been published in prominent journals, as the essay in the London Review of Books suggests. Her collections of poetry include Same Blue Chevy and Where the Time Goes. The Harvard Review describes Gale’s lyric gift as “quirky, comic, yet strangely touching—the poignancy emerging when you least expect it.” Take, for instance, these narrative stanzas from “Tucson, 1982,” which end so unexpectedly in poignant loss:
In those days, the whole world
was a doll house we had stepped into
when we left our cities and parents
to waitress at the Crying Onion Café
or bartend at The Borderline Tavern,
in a state where one of the only rules was:
people had to check their guns at the bar.
I was one of those bartenders
who held out her hand to receive
a thirty-eight in exchange for a beer,
my nonchalance, like my suede jacket,
a Western affectation.
Those were the years I tried on everything
to see what would fit,
and except for the cowboy boots
I don’t have anything or anybody left.
was a doll house we had stepped into
when we left our cities and parents
to waitress at the Crying Onion Café
or bartend at The Borderline Tavern,
in a state where one of the only rules was:
people had to check their guns at the bar.
I was one of those bartenders
who held out her hand to receive
a thirty-eight in exchange for a beer,
my nonchalance, like my suede jacket,
a Western affectation.
Those were the years I tried on everything
to see what would fit,
and except for the cowboy boots
I don’t have anything or anybody left.
Such delicious lines. The narrative is just this side of laconic—as is the poem Gale has included in this feature, “Owl.” The details conjure both wonder, and as if from the inside, the tenderness of being young, open, about to experience great loss but on that verge, and so bountifully and reverently aware of the world’s mysteries that our breath catches.
Now, it is with great excitement that I invite readers to savor the poems that Gale Walden has gathered for this winter’s feature.
Women over Sixty, Living in the Middle
It was an honor to serve as guest poetry editor for this issue of Persimmon Tree, which focuses on poets in the middle of the country. It allowed me to consider what we, women over sixty, living in the middle, might contemplate. We notice birds; sometimes they talk to us. We think about our mothers, still. Sometimes we think about Emily Dickinson. We walk through prairies. We like watching water. We worry about our country. Sometimes we worry about our upper arms. We have survived a lot, but not everyone we love has survived. We remember things and we worry that we aren’t remembering things.
Does it matter that we are in the middle? The states represented here vary quite a bit, geographically and politically, so I don’t know that there’s a commonality other than we aren’t in any real danger of falling off. And that might be something. There is sky and prairie and a ground that maybe grounds. I like the middle.
I was tasked with choosing 14 poems out of approximately 400 poems, and it wasn’t easy. The 14 poems I ended up choosing spoke to me, often in ways I didn’t understand. This is what poetry is: communicating the visible invisible to others. This process was helpful to me, someone who doesn’t send out poetry often because she doesn’t like rejection. It is really clear on this side how subjective the process is. There were a lot of excellent poems sent to us. A different editor looking at the same group of poems might have gathered 14 different poems. I thank everyone who submitted, who enhanced my Thanksgiving break with a wealth of poetry. I have bookended my selection with two of my own poems and I am proud to be in this company.
Still Life
Some of us have died, it’s true.
And the rest of us will, also true.
But 15 years old, Rainbow Beach,
Chicago 1974, we don’t believe in mortality
don’t know that baby oil and aluminum blankets
might reflect bad news later on;
don’t believe there’s anything wrong
with swimming in water next to a factory,
whose thick pillars of white smoke we echo
with wispy smoke from Newport cigarettes.
There’s always a guy with a mustache
and a boom box near the parking lot
and some strand of Benny and the Jets
floating out toward the water
and all the white girls getting their tan on.
It’s important to burn first
then peel away, important to learn
about foundational hurt.
This beach is a job, requiring repose
on multicolored towels, eyes closed in
preparation for upcoming night,
city block parties lit with tiny lights
under which we will dance to the Beach Boys
sway to Van Morrison, the sun
still glowing our skin warm.
And we will still dream
of leaving the Southside.
But that summer we were all still there;
still pristine.
Still on the verge.
And our parents, at home, vigilant,
still, in retrospect,
so young, so impossibly alive.
And the rest of us will, also true.
But 15 years old, Rainbow Beach,
Chicago 1974, we don’t believe in mortality
don’t know that baby oil and aluminum blankets
might reflect bad news later on;
don’t believe there’s anything wrong
with swimming in water next to a factory,
whose thick pillars of white smoke we echo
with wispy smoke from Newport cigarettes.
There’s always a guy with a mustache
and a boom box near the parking lot
and some strand of Benny and the Jets
floating out toward the water
and all the white girls getting their tan on.
It’s important to burn first
then peel away, important to learn
about foundational hurt.
This beach is a job, requiring repose
on multicolored towels, eyes closed in
preparation for upcoming night,
city block parties lit with tiny lights
under which we will dance to the Beach Boys
sway to Van Morrison, the sun
still glowing our skin warm.
And we will still dream
of leaving the Southside.
But that summer we were all still there;
still pristine.
Still on the verge.
And our parents, at home, vigilant,
still, in retrospect,
so young, so impossibly alive.
Witness
They all rise at once
small white birds
imperceptible a moment before
on the sandbar’s long finger
Behind them
rock face obscures the sky
I spy a house resting
in a far wall of pines
white frame with black windows
a wide gray roof made of wooden shingles
No, you say gently
it’s just more rock behind the trees
I point out the woodshed
The dark green shutters
You take a picture
spread your fingers across the glass
enlarging the gray rock
stained with black and white streaks
Oh, okay, I say
and struggle to find the house again
The air above the lake whispers
with such slow breath
all the birds turn and cease
pumping their wings
like dust moats floating
And the water folds
over and over
Such slow breath
small white birds
imperceptible a moment before
on the sandbar’s long finger
Behind them
rock face obscures the sky
I spy a house resting
in a far wall of pines
white frame with black windows
a wide gray roof made of wooden shingles
No, you say gently
it’s just more rock behind the trees
I point out the woodshed
The dark green shutters
You take a picture
spread your fingers across the glass
enlarging the gray rock
stained with black and white streaks
Oh, okay, I say
and struggle to find the house again
The air above the lake whispers
with such slow breath
all the birds turn and cease
pumping their wings
like dust moats floating
And the water folds
over and over
Such slow breath
Once Upon a Rhythm
When my dad walked with me,
shoulder to shoulder,
we skirted past potholes
and cracking slanted sidewalks
up and down hills
on our after-supper
meat-and-potatoes outings.
I circled around my chaperone
who tried to protect me
from flying manure and splashing mud
as men once did.
I circled around Dad like Saturn gone rogue,
a problem planet revolting against custom
and the pull of polite men
while my father strove
to solidify his position near the curb.
Dad was a wood fence.
With a fence you understand
what it means to cross borders.
When I walked with my long-legged husband,
I skipped beats, stopped counting the rhythm,
caught up in the pauses that we made
at the crosswalks in Los Angeles.
Now I run with my granddaughter.
I don’t walk.
Up and down dunes
to the edges of her future.
shoulder to shoulder,
we skirted past potholes
and cracking slanted sidewalks
up and down hills
on our after-supper
meat-and-potatoes outings.
I circled around my chaperone
who tried to protect me
from flying manure and splashing mud
as men once did.
I circled around Dad like Saturn gone rogue,
a problem planet revolting against custom
and the pull of polite men
while my father strove
to solidify his position near the curb.
Dad was a wood fence.
With a fence you understand
what it means to cross borders.
When I walked with my long-legged husband,
I skipped beats, stopped counting the rhythm,
caught up in the pauses that we made
at the crosswalks in Los Angeles.
Now I run with my granddaughter.
I don’t walk.
Up and down dunes
to the edges of her future.
From a suite of paintings titled Beauty Beyond Breast by Chea
Wail
A daughter will be at Sunday dinner,
somewhere after grace and
before her mother’s recipe potato salad,
her kinfolk will be startled to see
her chest splayed open,
ribs askew, all its contents laid bare,
heart most prominent,
each coronary artery poised to deliver oxygen
like it was gospel
and each beat was church.
There will be a collective gasp to see
her heart not pumping blood,
but hot tears.
Then, they will understand
“broken-hearted” is a bona fide diagnosis
not just a figure of speech
to describe some motherless child.
Opinion had been the daughter was mostly done
with grief over a decade old,
so they are startled to see her
still so hurt.
The daughter will rise,
use an heirloom dinner napkin
to hold her insides in place,
she will excuse herself,
flee to her mother’s room,
throw herself
across the bed
and wail.
somewhere after grace and
before her mother’s recipe potato salad,
her kinfolk will be startled to see
her chest splayed open,
ribs askew, all its contents laid bare,
heart most prominent,
each coronary artery poised to deliver oxygen
like it was gospel
and each beat was church.
There will be a collective gasp to see
her heart not pumping blood,
but hot tears.
Then, they will understand
“broken-hearted” is a bona fide diagnosis
not just a figure of speech
to describe some motherless child.
Opinion had been the daughter was mostly done
with grief over a decade old,
so they are startled to see her
still so hurt.
The daughter will rise,
use an heirloom dinner napkin
to hold her insides in place,
she will excuse herself,
flee to her mother’s room,
throw herself
across the bed
and wail.
Sunday School, 1954
Across the flannel board
the wise men travel on their camels,
inch by inch in the teacher’s hands
across that soft black sand.
If we’re good
she’ll let us touch them, lead them
across the desert of make-believe
to the other side of the board
where the star they’ve been following
hangs over the baby in the manger
and his mother and father watch
patiently—except this father
isn’t really the father. “God is the Father,”
the teacher explains. I raise my hand.
Something about the story doesn’t make sense.
She offers animal crackers and apple juice.
“We’ll talk about it later,” she says.
Soon the hour is almost over
and we bow our heads.
We pray
to be good, to honor and obey
our parents.
Before the prayer is done
I peek: Beside me Janie Haverhall
picks her nose, Ricky Moody rubs his crotch.
And from his place on the wall
the grown-up Jesus watches over us,
a movie star with his ivory skin,
blue eyes.
I close mine again, imagining
the world beyond, where a man like that
might fall for a girl like me.
the wise men travel on their camels,
inch by inch in the teacher’s hands
across that soft black sand.
If we’re good
she’ll let us touch them, lead them
across the desert of make-believe
to the other side of the board
where the star they’ve been following
hangs over the baby in the manger
and his mother and father watch
patiently—except this father
isn’t really the father. “God is the Father,”
the teacher explains. I raise my hand.
Something about the story doesn’t make sense.
She offers animal crackers and apple juice.
“We’ll talk about it later,” she says.
Soon the hour is almost over
and we bow our heads.
We pray
to be good, to honor and obey
our parents.
Before the prayer is done
I peek: Beside me Janie Haverhall
picks her nose, Ricky Moody rubs his crotch.
And from his place on the wall
the grown-up Jesus watches over us,
a movie star with his ivory skin,
blue eyes.
I close mine again, imagining
the world beyond, where a man like that
might fall for a girl like me.
We Who Grew Up On The Great Lakes Know
They’re beasts who roll, waves so tall they can claw
the tops of lighthouses. Their long, thick tails flick
unwary souls off sturdy docks. I always thought
I’d like to use one of those tails as a gangway
to climb on, mount up and ride off, or maybe
I’d let myself fall into the watery froth. What
a comfort to know salvation was close to
my patch of spiky screams. Where I lived
even the furniture hurt. It all had edges.
Every house had thin lips. Their whispers
sliced faces. People loved that town—
the pretty bungalows where we pretended
not a single shriek could be heard on streets
where all the houses were the same.
The clouds sailing overhead
turned their faces away.
the tops of lighthouses. Their long, thick tails flick
unwary souls off sturdy docks. I always thought
I’d like to use one of those tails as a gangway
to climb on, mount up and ride off, or maybe
I’d let myself fall into the watery froth. What
a comfort to know salvation was close to
my patch of spiky screams. Where I lived
even the furniture hurt. It all had edges.
Every house had thin lips. Their whispers
sliced faces. People loved that town—
the pretty bungalows where we pretended
not a single shriek could be heard on streets
where all the houses were the same.
The clouds sailing overhead
turned their faces away.
Christmas Card from Emily
I found a Christmas card from Emily Dickinson
instructing me how to make her gingerbread–
Heavy, dark, full of butter, cream, and lots of spice.
So I made a cake for every class
on Dickinson I ever taught.
As my students gingerly nibbled
“My Life Has Stood a Loaded Gun,” “Wild Nights,”
and “This World Is Not Conclusion,”
they fell in love with this white-clothed spinster
recluse who reached across a century and a half
stuffing their mouths and feeding their minds
with sweet-scented, dark, and spicy wonder.
instructing me how to make her gingerbread–
Heavy, dark, full of butter, cream, and lots of spice.
So I made a cake for every class
on Dickinson I ever taught.
As my students gingerly nibbled
“My Life Has Stood a Loaded Gun,” “Wild Nights,”
and “This World Is Not Conclusion,”
they fell in love with this white-clothed spinster
recluse who reached across a century and a half
stuffing their mouths and feeding their minds
with sweet-scented, dark, and spicy wonder.
The Valentine Month
for Henry
Thirty-four degrees, and the falling snow
turns to slush before it can hit the ground.
The dog comes in so wet and muddy
that I don’t notice at first the faint odor
of skunk which flavors everything in February,
their mating season. The muck between
the dog’s toes is a perfect marriage of ice
and rain and the sludge of an empty corn field
where he loves to hunt for small amorous
things in this, the Valentine month.
He luxuriates in the towel rubbed the length
of his spine, but reminds us not to touch his feet!
How easily spring nudges us into the present–
the smell of a wet dog almost inviting, intimate
in a grungy sort of way, if I were not so concerned
about the carpeting and fat muddy tracks.
What can this month possibly know about spring,
about love? Too early for vernal pools, too late
to caution the apricot about blooming so soon.
I’ve already read the weather report, threatened
the peach trees, reminding them a late freeze
can drop little peaches like velvet buttons.
Love stirs nevertheless, and how glorious it is
to be towel dried, to be rubbed behind the ears,
to know that there is more to come, to know
that February is only the beginning.
turns to slush before it can hit the ground.
The dog comes in so wet and muddy
that I don’t notice at first the faint odor
of skunk which flavors everything in February,
their mating season. The muck between
the dog’s toes is a perfect marriage of ice
and rain and the sludge of an empty corn field
where he loves to hunt for small amorous
things in this, the Valentine month.
He luxuriates in the towel rubbed the length
of his spine, but reminds us not to touch his feet!
How easily spring nudges us into the present–
the smell of a wet dog almost inviting, intimate
in a grungy sort of way, if I were not so concerned
about the carpeting and fat muddy tracks.
What can this month possibly know about spring,
about love? Too early for vernal pools, too late
to caution the apricot about blooming so soon.
I’ve already read the weather report, threatened
the peach trees, reminding them a late freeze
can drop little peaches like velvet buttons.
Love stirs nevertheless, and how glorious it is
to be towel dried, to be rubbed behind the ears,
to know that there is more to come, to know
that February is only the beginning.
From a suite of paintings titled Beauty Beyond Breast by Chea
City Lessons Straight Up
When love struck, I settled for
Security’s illusion, married trouble
Stuck to that man like a bad rash
Past desire, I learned the meaning of wife
When love struck, passion found me
I tolerated rejection
Was all over the man like a bad rash
In need, I learned the meaning of friend
Next time love struck
I played
Gave the man some rope
Aimed forward
& he wanted me all over him like a bad rash
& no tomorrows
& he wanted his freedom & my time
& no ties
& he expected all play, my hard-earned bucks
& good times
& no agendas, &
He wanted me to cover him like a bad rash
& & & I told him
If & was a frying pan, you’d have no need of a skillet
& if he was a man, then be a man
& if he was a kid
Go, buy a toy
Security’s illusion, married trouble
Stuck to that man like a bad rash
Past desire, I learned the meaning of wife
When love struck, passion found me
I tolerated rejection
Was all over the man like a bad rash
In need, I learned the meaning of friend
Next time love struck
I played
Gave the man some rope
Aimed forward
& he wanted me all over him like a bad rash
& no tomorrows
& he wanted his freedom & my time
& no ties
& he expected all play, my hard-earned bucks
& good times
& no agendas, &
He wanted me to cover him like a bad rash
& & & I told him
If & was a frying pan, you’d have no need of a skillet
& if he was a man, then be a man
& if he was a kid
Go, buy a toy
Berries
My nephew’s
liver is pure
scar tissue.
After twenty years
of being soaked
with booze,
it ignores
the toxins
building up
inside him
like a blank-
faced TSA guard
watching
passengers roll
wheelbarrows
of dynamite
onto the plane.
His esophagus
has ripped up its
job description,
turning away all
who seek entry.
We give him
tiny bits of food.
I heard an interview
with a woman who
jumped off the
Golden Gate Bridge
and survived.
“The second after
I did it,” she said,
all I could think,
was I want to live!”
As my nephew puts
a strawberry small
as the tip of a pinky
into his mouth,
I see the ache
of hope on
his face.
So many things
can’t be
reversed.
The berry drops
into the dark barrel
of his stomach
and stays just
long enough
for a quick
look around
before it is
detected
and cast out.
liver is pure
scar tissue.
After twenty years
of being soaked
with booze,
it ignores
the toxins
building up
inside him
like a blank-
faced TSA guard
watching
passengers roll
wheelbarrows
of dynamite
onto the plane.
His esophagus
has ripped up its
job description,
turning away all
who seek entry.
We give him
tiny bits of food.
I heard an interview
with a woman who
jumped off the
Golden Gate Bridge
and survived.
“The second after
I did it,” she said,
all I could think,
was I want to live!”
As my nephew puts
a strawberry small
as the tip of a pinky
into his mouth,
I see the ache
of hope on
his face.
So many things
can’t be
reversed.
The berry drops
into the dark barrel
of his stomach
and stays just
long enough
for a quick
look around
before it is
detected
and cast out.
The Things She Carried
Money for a phone call, and
the number for the shelter.
Extra diapers, a picture book,
a pacifier in case the baby cried out.
A change of clothes for each of them,
mother / daughter / son.
A book to read, because she always needed
something to read. Her work number.
A picture of him, in case
a deputy deemed him worth the trouble.
A bottle of water, a can of mace, a bottle
with the milk she’d pumped that morning.
An umbrella. Sunglasses. Coats.
Some toys, some lists of things he’d done,
a photo album, anything he might decide to burn.
(Once, he made her write down all of her faults
as he dictated loudly, then tossed it
in the wood stove so she would have no evidence.)
Hand lotion. Shampoo. Mascara. A snack,
her mother’s recipes. His cigarettes, just for spite.
The good dishes, the silver, her grandma’s
quilts, all the irreplaceables.
No, of course not. The things she carried were these:
Her driver’s license. A twenty from his wallet.
The number for the shelter. Her children’s hands.
the number for the shelter.
Extra diapers, a picture book,
a pacifier in case the baby cried out.
A change of clothes for each of them,
mother / daughter / son.
A book to read, because she always needed
something to read. Her work number.
A picture of him, in case
a deputy deemed him worth the trouble.
A bottle of water, a can of mace, a bottle
with the milk she’d pumped that morning.
An umbrella. Sunglasses. Coats.
Some toys, some lists of things he’d done,
a photo album, anything he might decide to burn.
(Once, he made her write down all of her faults
as he dictated loudly, then tossed it
in the wood stove so she would have no evidence.)
Hand lotion. Shampoo. Mascara. A snack,
her mother’s recipes. His cigarettes, just for spite.
The good dishes, the silver, her grandma’s
quilts, all the irreplaceables.
No, of course not. The things she carried were these:
Her driver’s license. A twenty from his wallet.
The number for the shelter. Her children’s hands.
On Giving Away Two More Hens
It comes down to this.
Those who do in the others,
pick on them, bully, terrorize,
cannot remain in the flock.
But then, why did we give away
the victims, send them to lush pastures,
strange farmers who know the meaning
of loss. Farewell blue eggs, but also
farewell, the pulled feathers, the bare
behinds, the hounding, and the blood.
Out of remorse, in atonement, we make amends.
Restitution places no stock in meanies.
I tell you, don’t even kill them for their meat.
Those who do in the others,
pick on them, bully, terrorize,
cannot remain in the flock.
But then, why did we give away
the victims, send them to lush pastures,
strange farmers who know the meaning
of loss. Farewell blue eggs, but also
farewell, the pulled feathers, the bare
behinds, the hounding, and the blood.
Out of remorse, in atonement, we make amends.
Restitution places no stock in meanies.
I tell you, don’t even kill them for their meat.
Age
I might as well have left the room.
or never entered. For you, or you,
I might as well be invisible
and mute, cloaked and gagged. You look
past me; you shrug: not important.
Across the summer night an engine
pulls car after car after car
of steel, a lonesome sound now
that conversation has resumed as though
I haven’t spoken. Wait, just wait.
Age will crumple your bright page.
Across another night, against
the lilt of wit and delight, someone
will look through you, and you’ll hear
gotcha, gotcha, gotcha
as boxcars clang against the rails.
or never entered. For you, or you,
I might as well be invisible
and mute, cloaked and gagged. You look
past me; you shrug: not important.
Across the summer night an engine
pulls car after car after car
of steel, a lonesome sound now
that conversation has resumed as though
I haven’t spoken. Wait, just wait.
Age will crumple your bright page.
Across another night, against
the lilt of wit and delight, someone
will look through you, and you’ll hear
gotcha, gotcha, gotcha
as boxcars clang against the rails.
From a suite of paintings titled Beauty Beyond Breast by Chea
Meanwhile
While I was sipping my too hot cappuccino,
someone was driving through an intersection, looking
at their text messages just long enough to miss
seeing the boy on his bicycle shoot into the crosswalk.
Someone else was in a hospital watching his child’s head
crowning between his wife’s straining legs, paused
in the in-between of breathing and not breathing—
then sucking in air with the wail of life.
Elsewhere, someone was swimming a dirty river at a border crossing
with a backpack on his back and desperation in his arms,
as his 10-year-old daughter sank beneath turgid water,
ten feet from shore
At this very moment, someone is hitting the jackpot, punching the air, laughing,
cheering, and watching the coins waterfall to the floor, while
somewhere else, someone is stroking a kitten, or a gun,
or calculating the nanoseconds for a landing on the dark side of the moon,
or delicately easing a tumor from adhesions on a frontal lobe.
Someone else is ordering fries, or drowning in Kentucky
Bourbon in Kentucky, or holding the cooling flesh of her mother’s dead
hand, still soft against rough hospital sheets.
Somewhere, someone is forgetting the name of her sister, or how to
tell time, or simply forgetting to put out the trash, or to clear the table, or
maybe to look both ways before, or to always, to never, to be sure to–
avoid looking down at the text message at just
the wrong moment while driving through the intersection,
or maybe continuing to sip the scalding coffee, even knowing it must burn.
someone was driving through an intersection, looking
at their text messages just long enough to miss
seeing the boy on his bicycle shoot into the crosswalk.
Someone else was in a hospital watching his child’s head
crowning between his wife’s straining legs, paused
in the in-between of breathing and not breathing—
then sucking in air with the wail of life.
Elsewhere, someone was swimming a dirty river at a border crossing
with a backpack on his back and desperation in his arms,
as his 10-year-old daughter sank beneath turgid water,
ten feet from shore
At this very moment, someone is hitting the jackpot, punching the air, laughing,
cheering, and watching the coins waterfall to the floor, while
somewhere else, someone is stroking a kitten, or a gun,
or calculating the nanoseconds for a landing on the dark side of the moon,
or delicately easing a tumor from adhesions on a frontal lobe.
Someone else is ordering fries, or drowning in Kentucky
Bourbon in Kentucky, or holding the cooling flesh of her mother’s dead
hand, still soft against rough hospital sheets.
Somewhere, someone is forgetting the name of her sister, or how to
tell time, or simply forgetting to put out the trash, or to clear the table, or
maybe to look both ways before, or to always, to never, to be sure to–
avoid looking down at the text message at just
the wrong moment while driving through the intersection,
or maybe continuing to sip the scalding coffee, even knowing it must burn.
may the gods bless america
may/might/should/shall/will the gods all
or some of them gods of mystery and might
gods of cello and flute trumpet and trombone
gods of broom and threshold gods of violence
and compassion gods of calamity and chaos
gods of destruction and devastation gods of whales
and sardines parks and palaces prairie grass
and grassy knolls gods of desktops and documents
fearmongering gods and love-lingering gods
feathered gods frostbitten and forgotten gods
bless/behold/bestow/beautify america
america the land that I may love
land stolen and stratified and scraped
and scrapped land of those still
breathlessly arriving giving striving
making this land the land that i still love
or some of them gods of mystery and might
gods of cello and flute trumpet and trombone
gods of broom and threshold gods of violence
and compassion gods of calamity and chaos
gods of destruction and devastation gods of whales
and sardines parks and palaces prairie grass
and grassy knolls gods of desktops and documents
fearmongering gods and love-lingering gods
feathered gods frostbitten and forgotten gods
bless/behold/bestow/beautify america
america the land that I may love
land stolen and stratified and scraped
and scrapped land of those still
breathlessly arriving giving striving
making this land the land that i still love
Owl
There was an owl in the middle of the city street
past dusk, new moon,
so big I thought the figure, at first, a dog,
or some strange chimera
because it seemed to be scratching itself with a wing.
My father was dying.
If that was possible,
anything was.
But when my headlights
landed on the owl,
I saw it for what it was.
An owl. In the middle of the street in the middle of a city.
Of course I thought it was a sign
because that is my way.
But I did not know what the sign portended.
Then the owl hopped to the
curb, which helped with meaning not one bit.
I turned the corner, turned off the lights
and then the car itself, and tip-toed
back to the curb
but the owl had removed itself
to dark lawn,
its shape now formed with the night,
the eyes breaking through to me.
The next day, I left the city
and drove to my friend’s farm
and I spoke of the owl, which had been on my mind.
My friend said, “Owls are doing that now.”
In mid-day, a large owl sat on a fence in the field,
stared at him and scratched itself.
And I thought maybe.
A lot of people think
the end of the world is coming.
Maybe the owls
have organized themselves into omens.
If only we could talk to the birds.
If only they could, like carrier pigeons,
bring us messages that say:
“I’m happy right where I am, darling.”
“The Lord, Your God is on hiatus.”
“You will survive, even when the man you have loved all your life is gone.”
But we don’t know all the ways
the birds mean,
just that they are there, these
parliamentary gifts
that allow us to construct elegant warnings:
The end draws near,
and assurances:
You are on the right street.
At the right time.
You have met me.
past dusk, new moon,
so big I thought the figure, at first, a dog,
or some strange chimera
because it seemed to be scratching itself with a wing.
My father was dying.
If that was possible,
anything was.
But when my headlights
landed on the owl,
I saw it for what it was.
An owl. In the middle of the street in the middle of a city.
Of course I thought it was a sign
because that is my way.
But I did not know what the sign portended.
Then the owl hopped to the
curb, which helped with meaning not one bit.
I turned the corner, turned off the lights
and then the car itself, and tip-toed
back to the curb
but the owl had removed itself
to dark lawn,
its shape now formed with the night,
the eyes breaking through to me.
The next day, I left the city
and drove to my friend’s farm
and I spoke of the owl, which had been on my mind.
My friend said, “Owls are doing that now.”
In mid-day, a large owl sat on a fence in the field,
stared at him and scratched itself.
And I thought maybe.
A lot of people think
the end of the world is coming.
Maybe the owls
have organized themselves into omens.
If only we could talk to the birds.
If only they could, like carrier pigeons,
bring us messages that say:
“I’m happy right where I am, darling.”
“The Lord, Your God is on hiatus.”
“You will survive, even when the man you have loved all your life is gone.”
But we don’t know all the ways
the birds mean,
just that they are there, these
parliamentary gifts
that allow us to construct elegant warnings:
The end draws near,
and assurances:
You are on the right street.
At the right time.
You have met me.
Coloratura On A Silence Found In Many Expressive Systems
by Alice Fulton
Coloratura On A Silence Found In Many Expressive Systems extends tactile mysteries to existential questions of invisible miracles, connection, and faith in the face of silence: “By praying you, I create you,” Fulton informs an elusive God. Reveling in the stunning possibilities of language, she seeks joy to counteract trauma and grief, empathizes with the silent pathos of animals, and finds solace in art, friendship, and the mysterious power of gifts. Without denying suffering, this enthralling volume extends a fervent prayer for gratitude and healing.
Fulton borrows tropes and theories from science, linguistics, visual art, [and] mathematics…It is this kind of sonic and imaginative range—which puts into conversation the music of what is voiced with what is silent, invisible—that makes it almost impossible to talk about the powerful hold of these poems…Perhaps more than any poet writing today, Fulton takes to heart John Keats’s belief that writing poetry is a ‘vale of soul-making.’...‘You have to listen,’ she admonishes, ‘louder than you sing.’ Is there a more attentive listener than Alice Fulton? A more haunted and haunting singer?
— Lisa Russ Spaar, On the Seawall
Alice Fulton is the featured poet in the spring 2024 issue of Persimmon Tree.
Miriam Bat-Ami lives in Michigan. She has published three children’s books, a volume of nature poetry, and Two Suns in the Sky, a YA historical novel that won the Scott O'Dell award and will be reprinted by Copan Books. “Once Upon a Rhythm” is for her granddaughter, Maya, who bet she’d beat her at a race and did.
Annette Hope Billings is an award-winning poet, actress, and storyteller from Topeka KS, who makes it her artistic business to loosen the Bible Belt! In addition to writing poetry and prose, she delights in creating stories for and with children. Her publications include four books of poetry, most recently, Just Shy of Stars (Spartan Press 2018).
Maril Crabtree lives in Kansas City. She has authored three chapbooks and two full-length collections. Her poems, essays, and short stories have appeared in a number of journals, including I-70 Review, Literary Mama, Main Street Rag, Poet’s Market, and Third Wednesday. More poems can be found at 
Jane C. Desmond is a poet living in Champaign IL. Her poetry has appeared in Words for the Wild in the UK, The Shrew Literary Magazine, Persimmon Tree, and The Intima, among other publications, and has been supported by residencies at Write On Door County (WI) and Wildacres Retreat (NC).
Cathryn Essinger is the author of five books of poetry—most recently The Apricot and the Moon and Wings, or Does the Caterpillar Dream of Flight, both from Dos Madres Press. Her poems can be found in a wide variety of journals. She lives in Troy OH, where she raises butterflies.
Ronnie Hess is an essayist and poet who lives in Madison WI. She is the author of two culinary travel guides and seven poetry collections, including her most recent, about raising hens in her backyard.
Pam Kress-Dunn (MFA University of Nebraska) of Dubuque IA, has published poetry in literary and medical journals, staged plays, and written hundreds of personal essays, many disguised as newspaper columns. Pam blogs sporadically at SiegeOfWords.com.
Katherine Mitchell’s poems and essays appear or are forthcoming in december, 2River View, The Southern Review and The Louisville Review. She holds an MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Missouri St. Louis. An Alexander Technique teacher by profession, Katherine teaches movement-for-writers workshops across the country. She lives in St. Louis MO.
Julie Price Pinkerton teaches Creative Writing at the University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign where she is a three-time winner of the Campus Teaching Award. She instructs poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction workshops and specializes in trauma writing. Her poem “Veins” won the Rattle Poetry Prize.
Lee Robinson lives in the Texas hill country. She practiced law in SC for many years and was elected the first female president of the Charleston Bar Association. Her poems, essays, and stories have appeared in many journals, including Harper's, American Book Review, The Texas Observer and Crab Orchard Review. She has also published three novels, including one for young adults.
Mona Lisa Saloy, Ph.D., a former Louisiana Poet Laureate, is an award-winning author, folklorist, educator, and scholar of Creole culture in articles, documentaries, and poems about Black New Orleans before and after Katrina. She is currently the Conrad N. Hilton Endowed Professor of English at Dillard University, and Louisiana Folklife Commissioner. Her first book, Red Beans & Ricely Yours: Poems, won the T. S. Eliot Prize and the PEN/Oakland Josephine Miles Award
Diane Silver is an essayist and Pushcart Prize-nominated poet whose work has been published by Ms, MockingHeart Review, Lavender Review, and many other publications. Her books include the Daily Shot of Hope meditation series. She produces the weekly newsletter and podcast Poetry & Life at dianesilver.substack.com.
Sandy Solomon's book, Pears, Lake, Sun, which received the Agnes Lynch Starrett Prize from the University of Pittsburgh Press, was published simultaneously in the UK by Peterloo Poets. Her work has appeared in journals in the US and the UK, most recently, in The New Yorker, Plume, Scientific American, Kenyon Review, Harvard Review, and The Hopkins Review.
She lives in Nashville where from 2008 to 2024 she taught in Vanderbilt University's Creative Writing Program.
Cynthia Storrs teaches and writes in Nashville TN. Educated in the US and the UK, her poetry has been published in anthologies, magazines, and online. She has also published scholarly articles on bilingualism, biculturalism, and acculturation. Cynthia loves art history, theatre, landscape painting, and chocolate.
Gale Walden is the author of the poetry collections Same Blue Chevy and Where the Time Goes. Her fiction and nonfiction have appeared nationally in literary and mainstream magazines. She has won the Boston Review Annual Fiction Prize, had a notable short story in the Best American Fiction, and has been a featured poet in The Spoon River Poetry Review. Walden lives in Urbana IL, where she teaches at the University of Illinois Laboratory School. She is currently at work on a memoir.
Cynthia Hogue is the Poetry Editor of Persimmon Tree. Her tenth book of collected poetry, instead, it is dark, was published by Red Hen Press in June of 2023. Her other collections include Revenance, listed as one of the 2014 “Standout” books by the Academy of American Poets, and In June the Labyrinth (2017). Her third book-length translation (with Sylvain Gallais) is Nicole Brossard’s Distantly (Omnidawn 2022). Her Covid chapbook is entitled Contain (Tram Editions 2022). Among her honors are a Fulbright Fellowship to Iceland, two NEA Fellowships, and the Harold Morton Landon Translation Award from the Academy of American Poets (2013). She served as Guest Editor for Poem-a-Day for September (2022), sponsored by the Academy of American Poets. Hogue was the inaugural Maxine and Jonathan Marshall Chair in Modern and Contemporary Poetry at Arizona State University. She lives in Tucson.
Born in Southwest Dominican Republic in 1958, Chea [Mercedes Castillo] started painting in 2000, first as a hobby and later as a vocation. She continues to paint, participating in various exhibitions. Her focus is women’s issues, but she also paints about the importance of saving the environment for future generations. For more about Chea’s Beauty Beyond Breast paintings, visit
I wish for five minutes I could write like any and every one of these amazing poets.