By Myah Garrison
There is no life in a man like that,
No way a heart could beat in your cello chest.
Can your spindle fingers even touchMe? “There is no life in a man like that.”
I say this, fist-thump hoping
That your spindle legs will never run.
You stay or the world kicks, crying.I say this, fist-thump fearful,
Knowing how your ankle aches.
You stand or the world kicks over.
Let us warm our jealous egg.
Knowing how your ankle aches, I whisper—
“I’ve written poetry on your perfection.
Let us raise our ugly children…
Keep your heart in a cello case.
The Quilters of Chile
By Aniela Holtrop
The table is a universe of color.
Canvas bags, extra threads;
Not the husbands.
Nor the sons.
But the threads and scraps
Our needles stitch into their likeness.
Nightmares of black cars.
White Xs marking the front door,
Last time I saw him.
Tears on my cheeks now.
I need more red thread.
I sew the light blue sky,
I make small dolls,
Each holding a tiny stick gun,
Wearing all black.
Women with braided arms
Cover their invisible mouths.
The silenced screams
Of silenced women,
Meeting in church basements,
Hoping the world finds our packages,
Slipped through customs,
Sent in secret to beyond dictatorship.
I sew the buildings.
Stitch wishes into the fabric,
Women brave enough
To hold up bold banners.
Each story is a thousand colors.
Every color once bright, now faded.
I carefully add words
To the miniature protest.
Where are they?
Not the extra thread.
Nor the cotton, or burlap.
The husbands, the sons.