Poetry – Page 10 – Novus Literary and Arts Journal

Sputnik V

Written by J. C. Cordova. Posted in Poetry.

V is for vaccine:

the primal adversary against

a viral pathogen, ubiquitous and yet sparingly lethal,

heretofore unseen and yet hauntingly familiar.

Or is V for vector?

A vehicle, designed specifically to thrust

viral mRNA upon the human genome;

a vicarious introduction intended to blunt infectivity.

Or is V for victory, as Sputnik is for victory?

A vanquishing, simultaneously thwarting coronal encroachment

and the superiority complex of the West;

a political venture, a recasting of races for armament and space.

Or is V for vainglorious?

A virginal attempt, devoid of proper data?

An avaricious impropriety, shipping uncertainty across

taciturn borders into countries and continents of desperation.

V can be used to victimize or verify.

It can validate unsafe medical practices, encouraging replication,

or can be seen as a nadir of villainy, a confirmation of fraud and ineptitude.

Only time and the virus have the voices to tell.

Fairview

Written by Christian Umbach. Posted in Poetry.

On Sunday afternoons in August,

the streets and sidewalks

of Fairview are empty and drowsy.

The gentle buzz of weed wackers,

dispersed every few blocks,

cloaks the neighborhood

with a musing white noise.

Each yard tool operated by working men

dressed in cut-off tees and gym shorts.

In no apparent rush, they move with care

along flower beds and chain-linked fences.

Their shoulders slouched

from the weight of the machine,

their faces mute and expressionless,

neither frustrated nor content, the mind given space to wander.

It is the same face that stares

back through the mirror

each Tuesday morning, while trimming

stubble hidden beneath cheekbones.

Back and forth, the massage of metal against skin,

and the hum of the razor droning on and on,

drowning out fears, longings, hopes: anything

that tries to crop up.

News

Written by Anders Carlson-Wee. Posted in Poetry.

Whoever you are, they take care of you.

Dean leans over and labors the crank-window,

asking where you need to go. Lillian shows

how to clean and reload. Tucker. The Lees.

Savannah shrunk by cancer. Lyle by diet,

ordering you what he can’t eat. Hands that pass

the double cheese and hands that steer the wheel,

a foot floored toward Tennessee, our necks keeping

Hendrix’s beat. Each morning another warning

about the darkness out there. Triple murder,

no suspects. Alien abductions in the Palouse.

A family gone missing. A family found,

their organs removed. Each day, against all this

breaking news, another stranger saving you.

C₁₀H₁₂N₂O: Ode to Serotonin

Written by Dakota Delk. Posted in Poetry.

The therapist said you need sertraline.

Generic brand is still more

than you can afford. You cough up the tens anyways,

dropping them from fingers overworked

To the bone, nails chewed to skin

Near cerulean capsules quiet the hot static

Pulses, obsessive thoughts

Brain always switched on

like the flickering bathroom bulb your mother stands under

as she scrubs her hands raw. You wonder if they are sticky

like the candy-coated words she pours

from her lips or the slick lies she has been told.

The therapist said you need sertraline.

He said you have your father’s

eyes, as though your honey browns

are covering up his icy blues.

The man with the prescription pad

Stares at you and says that you are not whole.

He thinks your fizzy chaos is more

like your father’s live wire

Than your mother’s high tide.

Your brain quiets more in the silence

Than under the influence

of a licensed dealer like him.

You still look in the mirror

and you take the pills to hide

the blue underneath

your irises.

Shallow Water Over Sand

Written by Jesse Graves. Posted in Poetry.

I have seen this color before, in my mother’s shift-robe,

on old dresses her mother might have worn, blue-green,

delicate shade, like shallow water over white sand,

now in my palm, on a button I picked off the pavement

in the grocery store parking lot, color of thread stitched

into quilts made by hands born the century before last.

I Wake and Feel the Fall

Written by Shannon Lise. Posted in Featured, Poetry.

In the middle of the afternoon I wake and feel

the fall of dark — the shadow on the dogwood

and the shortening of days. It is easier to say

things to the facelessness of crowded places full

of light. You can kill the thing you cherish in a

thousand different ways. In my dream I got

your name wrong; would you leave me if you knew?

In your place there are a thousand other faces

and I don’t know what to say. Long ago you gave

me something from the darkness to hold onto

through the failing of the springtime, through

dimming of our faces — would you make a last

appearance and remind me what it is? You can

kill the thing you’re scared of if you let it walk

you home, if you let it come in close enough —

enough to feel your breath. In my dream I

didn’t know you and you laid down on my bed.