Poetry – Page 10 – Novus Literary and Arts Journal

FUTURE INSTRUCTION MANUAL: On Work

Written by Thad DeVassie. Posted in Poetry.

It will be the opposite of toil // the once-towed line that is now yours to draw // to define what has value // what will halve you // much like day from night // labor from leisure // from punch clocks to punch lines from those working the line // lunch lines in the corporate café // clock watching so as not to waste time on the timeline // the time sheets that need to be complete // accounting for hours // by the quarter // like a hoarder of time and profit // yet still not fit for the next rung //the one your brother said you should be gunning for // running for as if you were up for the vote // on the ballot // not some speculative write-in charlatan // work will not be this // it will not be just this toil of hands // head work intended to get you ahead // it will be eye work // mouth work // your words at work // your whole self // poured into something more than self-serving // a conviction of how time, more precious than profit, is spent // work is not the obligation you thought it was // told it was // sold it was // it is a decision // a vote // the only one you’ve got // the most consequential one you will cast.

High Beams (GET OFF THE ROAD)

Written by Brianna Fay. Posted in Poetry.

I have dreams

every other full moon or so

that I’m driving down middle road

and the sun had already set

and there’s a car driving towards me

he flashes his high beams at me.

On, off, and on. Three times.

I’m driving down the dip in the road

He’s coming at it from the other direction

His high beams light up the cabin of my Chevy Trailblazer

They illuminate the yellow dashes in the road

They light up the wheat on either side of the street.

On, off, and on. Three times.

What are you trying to tell me?

They light up the abandoned machinery in the field.

It’s been abandoned;

every time I pass,

every time the car drives by in my dreams.

The fields by this road are my favorite part of this town.

My family used to watch fireworks from that hill at the top of the road

and when the sun is setting

the city skyline lights up over the trees.

I used to take that road as a short cut to get home from Jay’s Diner.

It’s where I got pulled over for the first time.

It’s where I drove the car to the side of the road to spend three hours crying

just because everything was falling apart.

I have these dreams

every full moon or so

that I’m driving down middle road

and the sun has already set

and there’s a car driving towards me

and he flashes his high beams.

On, off, and on. Three times.

What are you trying to tell me?

Is there something wrong with my car?

YOU’RE DRIVING IN THE WRONG DIRECTION

Lately, the landscape has changed

but I still take that route home.

The machinery has been moving dirt.

Dad says they’re building soon

and we might not be able to see the skyline from that hill

GET OFF THE ROAD

I never go to Jay’s Diner anymore.

BEFORE IT’S TOO LATE

I don’t even know if this route is really a short cut.

GET OUT

On, off, and on again.

IT’S NOT TOO LATE

On Contemplating a Buzz Cut Before the Pandemic

Written by Briana Grace Hammerstrom. Posted in Poetry.

The Mania tells me to chop off my hair. I don’t.

I talk down the scissors

from an idea of bangs.

The clippers and I compromise on

an undercut- only mutilating

half of my head, no need

for the whole punishment. I

do not remind myself of all the knives in

the kitchen, afraid of the mob

they would become; taking

to the streets of my body, igniting

the memory of bleeding by choice. No-

I squash this rebellion before it starts,

thumb to forearm. Instead, remind

myself that I am sovereign: nothing

can remove my crown ((“Or the weight of it,”

Depression adds unsolicited, like a mother.))

I, like a mother, gift my hair the name Anchor.

A noun of its own. Depression simpers

something about

irony//doubt//the lies we tell ourselves

My hair rebuttals “truth

is subjective at best.” and says nothing else,

no billowy language, bloated

on its ideals of forgiveness

or growth or weight. Instead, it leaves

me alone. Gifts me an allowance of mistakes

The soft joy of bad at-home hair dye.

The brisk rush of freshly cut bangs.

The gentle thrum of clippers in steady hands.

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.

FUTURE INSTRUCTION MANUAL: On Work

High Beams (GET OFF THE ROAD)

On Contemplating a Buzz Cut Before the Pandemic

C₁₀H₁₂N₂O: Ode to Serotonin

Shallow Water Over Sand

I Wake and Feel the Fall

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