Gleam Issue 10
The following poems were selected by the editors
for Issue 10 of Gleam:
Last One In, by Tina Barry
Threads, by Sarah Carelton
The Elements of New York, by David Eisenstat
Release, by Shirley Jellum
Penumbras, by Tara Knight
Snow Drum, by Tara Knight
Old Woman, At Sunrise, by Dana McCormick
Diminishing View with Absent Landmarks, by K. Alma Peterson
Breaking Through, by Charlotte M. Porter
Itty-Bitty Torches, by Lenny Resch
Impressible Frogs, by Marsha Segerberg
Balanced, by Merril Smith
Visit, by Lisa St. John
The Limits of Irony, by Susan Stiles
Lighthouse, by Mary Stone
Our Innocence Still, by John Van Pelt
Unconscious Awareness, by Maggie Van Puten
Wild Poppy, by Susan Vespoli
Irresistible Allure, by Sterling Warner
a day at the beach hunting mammoths, by Jonathan Yungkans
only the content changes, by Jonathan Yungkans
1.
The other students in Ornithology 101 sneered
when she began describing birds by their walks,
and not their flights: the caper of a crow,
gallop of a gull, a tern skittering on sand.
Once birds were sky bound, she said,
they all looked the same. Dark blobs
rising. Wings flap-flapping fast,
then gone.
2.
Her mother tells her that her lover dropped
in again. The daughter nods, doesn’t say
that the man had died years before. This
world her mother dwells in, its jumbled
timeline, chaotic visitations, is new to
them both. The lover and her mother
went to a diner, ate scrambled eggs,
held hands.
3.
She loved the flea market’s blond wood
dressers, all the hand-dyed linen, so
why did the clunky plaster figurine
of a woman with a chipped nose
and glaring eyes call to her? On the
the way home, she glanced at it
on the back seat and started
to cry.
4.
She should have said no to her florist father, when
he offered to create her wedding bouquet. He never
liked the groom. But the one he arranged was exquisite—
fuchsia azaleas in hearty heaps, pink starred oleander,
lacy hemlock clouds, foxglove like so many open
mouths. After breathing in the blooms, a welt formed
above her lip, and her throat closed before
she could say “I do.”
5.
The boy crouched down beside the ants, jabbing
at their granular hills with a stick, delighted
at the frantic black merging and scattering.
He thought of geese as friends, with their
loud baritone greetings and goodbyes.
Unlike him, they all fit in—to an army
or a gaggle, a herd, a flock,
a family.
I – Still Life with Mushrooms
There was an exuberance in the Let them mingle—lace helmets, toques,
inky gills on the underside of ruffles tumbling
across a cutting board brightened by red-
polka-dot toadstools. Let panther cap
nestle beside turkey tail as if gravy and liver
failure were part of the same culture—
mud creatures of squeaky flesh redolent
of rain—a scent between loamy and fresh
urging us to take our place under the mulch.
II – Bioluminescence
On dirt roads black as planetless space
they strolled, tracking each other first by voice
and then by the frocks that emerged when
their pupils softened. Words came out
in the shorthand of friends: Sparks? The usual.
To the right, a murky pattern unrolled—
high copse, low field, repeat—till stars spilled
into a single meadow, blinking. The women
stared, letting firefly code flicker into meaning.
III – Family Pattern
I search the world for secondhand finery—
puffed sleeves, embroidered crimson petals
—and cram my closet with joy disguised
as raiment, a habit that links me to my son, who
pulls gold-trimmed vests from giveaway bins,
and my mom, who homes in on vintage
cherry print, and my niece, boasting a new-old
broomstick skirt, and my sisters, garbed in silk
jackets, smug with their gleanings.
IV – Kombucha Batch
Day after day, the amber liquid holds down one
corner of the kitchen, jewellike in a glass jar
the size of a hand drum, a blanket forming
atop it then thickening—rubbery, placental—
to contain bubbles as a microscopic consortium
fizzes tea and transmutes sugar to tanginess.
In the slurry the invisible alchemists,
whose lineage stretches back past the bronze
age, merge blobs into communities.
V – Sacred Harp After Midnight
A group in plaid flannel and boots huddled
under fairy-light strands strung around
the poles of the canopy where they gathered,
arms and temples touching, books open
on their laps. They sang first so, do, so, la,
so and then lyrics whose clunky consonants
they ignored, letting the vowels circle, like
a singing-bowl hymn rippling around a mallet
stroke, and rise to join the gaps in the forest.
1.
A censer puffs. Robed singers open their books
and intone the creation; I contemplate stained glass.
What a magnificent sound! How am I unmoved?
2.
When the earth tilts, ten thousand snows bury
the spruces: a glacier is born. Gleaning rock
from bedrock, it pestles the sediment into clay.
3.
The tenement is an oven. An old woman
sleeps on her fire escape, dreaming of shops
that burned, copper roofs melted, whole blocks destroyed.
4.
Loaves arrive on barges; flesh appears in steamers.
Insatiable, the city extends a straw to Croton,
yet no one considers where the sewage goes.
5.
Walking past, two men ask about my faith.
The temple brick glows russet as it bakes
in winter sun: this is what I believe.
I.
Fists in pockets, hoodie hiding his face, he watches a couple
with their heads full of clouds huddle at the water’s edge,
fingers entwined, facing the swirling surf.
Hunched against a cold wind, he wishes as they kiss he was
warm, hip to hip with the woman rapt in his embrace,
not the freak dreaming in the parking lot.
He listens to their laughter, the wash of waves, a gull’s
sea song—the cry like an invisible harp sounding
the siren’s call on a beach made for two.
II.
I hate her dinner table chatter who gives a shit about kitty litter flea collars
hairballs and cat puke but don’t talk politics or she’ll explode
defending lezzie friends tree-hugging yuppies Unitarian
do-gooders with pucker-lipped double-chinned righteousness oh yeah
she wheezes when she walks her polyester thighs rasp like
sandpaper she even steals my chair with fat-ankled
nonchalance complains about her aches that give me a pain forcing me
outdoors to remow the lawn or upstairs to take a nap until she
makes me wonder if daughters become their moms
III.
Like a hummingbird in a patch of morning glories, I’m knee deep
in beads of moisture struck by a lightning bolt of joy. Iris
with sickle-bladed leaves slap back and forth with
each step, their winged petals—black ringed, cobalt silk—twist
and turn in a rush of fresh air. On a distant knoll a handful
of clouds in a string of knots thrust and puff, fold
and roll against steep banks. As spring shifts into sleep, the sky
loosens, ice-slick pebbles whiten the air, time to gather
these fist-sized blossoms sagging in the cold.
IV.
In the driveway, I practiced shifting until the cup stayed upright
on the hood. Later, took a corner at 50, spun out on gravel,
dad deathly gray, learned the hard way to slow
down on turns. Finally licensed, cruising the fast lane, I ran over
barbed wire, mom raging, a friendly cop changing the tire.
Cresting a hill at 65 in a 30 zone, tires airborne, I
flirted my way out of a ticket. Dropped a hit of acid, drove home
loaded with dad’s vodka bottle under the driver’s seat, for
emergencies, he’d said. I was lucky. He wasn’t.
V.
we who judge hold your hearts in our hands, toss them like rocks
into the current, watch while lines break and words, too
heavy to grasp, sink. We watch while others settle
along the shore, lines flashing iridescent, flickers of movement
that tug one moment, slip through fingers the next. Some
gather in shallow pools, shimmer with blue untamed
voices, begging release. A few burst the river’s skin, shower us with
a shock of everything that’s cold. We shimmy and shake like
kings, roll with rainbows spinning silver upstream.
1
A signal was sent down the lines of dry grass,
pushed by the wind as it tossed dust and dragonflies
up beyond our reach while we ran, laughing
at the noontime shadows following us
over the meadow and into the house,
to crouch under our beds at midnight.
2
Pine pollen exploded in a puff of
itchy mist when you slammed the door
on any hope the morning would be good,
the sky deciding to take your side,
promising rain and a hint of thunder.
3
We moved the heart of the forest
to a spot beside the barbecue; now
birds come to nest in the charcoal,
dragonflies read the paper, and
wasps sip my coffee, double cream, as
an evergreen quilt covers up our deck.
4
If I had been born a tree,
my leaves would be simple,
and my heart would produce
something useful, like pitch
or rubber, or another ugly thing
that men harvest without a thought.
5
In the cold season, red willow
warms the banks beside the house,
proving that even the bones
of some things can be useful.
So when the day comes, I will lie there
and bring some good to the river.
- The Outer Margin
Out past the muddy salt in the doorway
and the smokers with their steaming lips,
a thin crust where no one walks waits
on a strip of asphalt by the loading dock.
This time of year, a quiet place, dignified
by ice and an absence of people. - Old Land
Once his grandmother told him
no man could ever live long enough
on the pathways beside the bay
to leave an indelible mark on the water
or on the wash of time over the granite
running through that North country. - Medicine Man
Thin poles kept the walls at bay
while the air, heavy with the weight
of smoke, pressed all the way down
into a dirt floor where hot embers
danced and turned in time to the drum,
just underneath the wind and memory. - Terminus
Because sometimes I miss our mittens,
on nights without sleep I go back
to the spot where the road ended in a bank
pushed up by the plow, and we dug in
to cocoon like sleeping bear cubs
while the cold turned our breath white. - Hawthorn Rust
It takes two seasons for the rust
to complete its life cycle, twisting
the twigs and spending the winter
in galls blooming on the bark,
and of the options available, the best
is to let the tree live and hope for better.
1.
I was already old, a spider, before
I watched you for years
among the hillocks and waves
and wrote my life to you, lines of blood
and absolution, fear and honey
2.
A little girl takes her goats to pasture;
watching falcons circle, falls
into faith and destiny brown-robed,
eagerly enters her cell,
forever longing for her beloved
3.
Sausages frying in autumn
blister and hiss, blood rich
I remember the pigs’ hot-pan scream
you wander the woods and I –
wait, in a deer stand high above
4.
Youth swings and the bees ride her hair
I dream and she catches my fire
her hair is flame bound in a knot
we both speak to ghosts but mine
are all me, still here begging
5.
I have been sick forever
my lungs blossom and clot
what can I give you besides death
my story is here and under and after, written
in scrolls inside deer skulls, for you
-1-
This morning I captured a tiny lizard
with a juice glass and part of a cereal box,
released it outside on the deck.
Would it do the same for me?
-2-
Only so far do I extend myself; a dock is
what I am. Like a concrete building, I can’t
pick up my footings. I’m a hotel lobby
taking up more space than I need.
-3-
A manatee’s bulk emerges, lightening
the water’s shadowy greenness. No doubt
this sea cow plods calmly up then down
the bayou; its buoyancy inexplicable.
-4-
They were displayed at low tide, unbroken
sand dollars. She thought her husband
would recover his ability to float. Through
fragile skin shone healed breaks in bones.
-5-
Happiness, like a splash of scent
that hangs on overlong, lives mostly
in the fade of a season. Returning on
occasion to the memory of itself.
- Wearing a see-through gown of silver sheen,
Marylyn Monroe sang Happy Birthday
to the President on national TV—
no undergarments, her full body there
for all to see the power of the flesh. - Drowsy moths close brown wings over eyespots.
Early mistle scatters wet sequins.
Along suburban lanes, stars set in sod.
At summer camp, girls braid each other’s hair,
keen for mid-August marshmallow pow-pow. - Weed-whacking the yard in strappy sandals,
a diva slices three toes of her left foot.
My bad she exclaims, too stubborn to wear
boots for yardwork, adamant but content
as a skink regenerating a limb. - A murder of crows descends and pecks slugs.
An old manure pile sprouts stoic spikes.
Shoots out of season, rye grass rows test frost. - Beware. Up from the big-bellied inlet,
clack, clack, the tone-deaf masked dancer rises,
a taut blue arc with a dolphin’s cleft lip
and four flat face fins, square corners of wind,
N, S, E, W, ravenous on dry land.
1.
Start with a beach as the border
as a tide strides out and
the sun sets. Watch for stars
to turn on like itty-bitty torches.
2.
The woman styles herself
as Cleopatra with a Pharoah’s
headpiece and a long, shiny dress,
and tries not to trip on her hem.
3.
A moth on the screen door
shivers its wings and sets off
a light as a rollicking dog’s
bark reverberates in the air
4.
Thoughts meander through
memory the way a stream
runs into a river, and to the sea,
but a mind becomes new daily.
5.
Joy stretches and stays buoyant,
floats on favorable winds
like an unfaltering frigate bird
gliding, wings spread wide.
1.
She looked like Ava Gardner but carried a butcher knife
in her backpack when she was angry, ready to dole out
justice as the Holy Spirit lucid in NYC. Mostly she’d sit
in the back of a church in Manhattan and whap worship-
ers across the backs of their heads, declaring that they’re
bad people and that she, as the Holy Spirit, is only doing
her job. People gave her a wide berth on Sullivan Street.
2.
We dressed as an Italian dinner. My ex was a tossed salad &
I got to be the plate of spaghetti, confetti of Parmesan cheese
floating off me everywhere we walked while she kept shedding
her little tomatoes as we stumbled along. Our friends, twins
joined at the hip in their impossible outfit, shared a grass skirt,
bikini bras, and colored aluminum foil wigs. They wiggled hips
and sang Wicky Wacky Hula Hula, blowing kazoos and kisses.
3.
Sister Agatha smiled when we made mistakes then whacked
us with rulers. You could never tell about big people. I grew
blank inside, needing to keep a low profile. Why was it taking
so long to understand everything because nothing made sense?
What could it mean that females were unclean? I was cleaner
than the grubby boys. I gave up the idea of becoming a cowboy,
Indian chief or Mr. Wizard. Wearing a dress made my skin crawl.
4.
It was a smoke-filled seminar room, woody, masculine, brown,
faculty members buzzy with after-dinner happy hour smiley faces.
Our guest speaker at the university primate center had just returned
from watching monkeys in a South American jungle and wasn’t yet
used to being around people again. He fumbled constantly with one
of those telescoping pointers until it got hopelessly tangled in his knit-
ted sweater. He gave up and let it dangle there for the rest of his talk.
5.
Start with a cell, a single cell. Double it, then again, and again end-
lessly until all the dumbassitude of the entire of humanity, with every
inhale a speck of oxygen Aristotle once used and our galaxy a mere
dot-pixel lost in the incomprehensibly vast pixilated, webby Web image,
a mere breath, mere wisp of a girl, her swirling feathers flicker the brief
candle, brush aside the way to dusty death, and we hear the puff-flutter
of the Good Witch’s cape, the clapping of irrepressible frogs.
1.
The cat-footed sky steps
with sure-footed grace, stretches landskein
as cat’s cradle across the valley,
till alpenglow meets crow-winged night,
drops silvered dreams below.
2.
Within the moon-swept museum
imprisoned spirits unframe themselves,
rise from long-held poses–
Venus waves her restored arms,
as she remembers she is a goddess.
3.
Dragon-quaking earth,
mammoth-thunder. Shifted soil,
white-furred sea-mares gallop across
the corduroy shore,
bodies and minds upended.
4.
A golden scorpion
waves castanet arms,
click-clack contrapuntal rhythms,
music slides blue in green
sea and stars kiss in harmony.
5.
The grey skeleton branches
bear witness in winter violet,
we were avalanched in snow and ice,
but unburied, hand in hand, we skate
a river of years—whoosh, we glide.
1
I hold my head against
a pine tree, expecting warm sounds
of slow moving sap.
2
A holy dusk awaits
as I close my heart from beating,
but there is no chance.
3
A whispered song sneaks out
of my throat while I forget the
hint of lost prayer.
4
Lilac buds barely bloom
before scenting their quiet fall,
drained from hummingbirds.
5
To hear footsteps softly
padding in the dark is all I
have left of your ghost.
1.
The wall is gorgeous, a gorgeous red,
incredible to look at, and take in,
its splendor. If Rothko had ever painted
a red chapel, it would have been
this red,
and everyone would have envied,
his choice of color.
2.
The scars on his back recall a fire,
ignited quickly, urgently,
symbiotic scars, of the most ruinous
variety. Yet the memory is absent from
his entire front side,
Constantine’s standard, batting away the
wind, on the Milvian Bridge.
3.
Weighted gardens, cedar thrones,
soaring, tight wayward statues
buckle at the knees. Pilgrims (in long
columns) lean on ancient souvenir
stands then forge
ahead as though nothing could ever
bring them comfort.
4.
Panthers toil at the edge of a crater
oblivious of the Dardanelles below
Tritons, Nereids, and sea monsters wait
their turn—restive, confused—before the
moment when dryness
(and even the memory of dryness)
becomes lost forever.
5.
In the distance, flag-bearers break out
of formation, lay down their dusty
props. Sites untold, linear stars, turbine
planets, far-flung galactic lightships.
The man in the lampshade
wanders through the crowd, proclaims:
brighter days are coming.
1.
See where the lake forms after a desert rainstorm,
deep, slow to evaporate. Photograph a castoff
office chair on the bank. Something in me wants
to celebrate lonely things, things out of place.
2.
Her little black car is stuffed with silk flowers — roses
hyacinths, tulips, hydrangeas. They press in on her,
the back hatch, the side windows. She hunches to see
over the wheel, gripping it tight against the crosswind.
3.
I’ve ruined my red leather gloves from Rome, walking
the beach in the rain. My shoes and pants, soaked,
and my new lighthouse socks. The highway’s runoff rivers
to the sea. I leap the shallows, wade the deeper carved.
4.
Austin. In Ellsworth Kelly’s chapel-space, our cells re-align.
Stained glass windows cast themselves onto stark black
and white stations of the cross with shape-shifting primary
colors. Do they speak of god? Let’s not.
5.
Before dawn, we witness the strawberry moon’s slip
into North Mountain. Sip our coffee. Listen to a rooster crow.
The doves begin their lament, and the quail, their worry.
On the nearby asphalt road, a lone quartet of steel belts.
1
we sit astride a garden stile
discover the other’s face as newborns do
your pupils boring into mine
oxygen sparse as comets
an hour goes by, a day, a fortnight
time alchemizes distance
under purple virgin’s bower…
2
six accumulated letters
spill from the harbormaster’s gunny sack
one per week of my circumnavigation—
beyond, another ocean & time
to pen my onion-skin reply
to the question you never ask
why did you go away…
3
our golden stage suddenly an anvil
patiently it’s explained
we are no longer children—
upon a shout turned into song
we’re loosed to pierce the Milky Way two-by-two
our city of auspice dwindling
to volcanic fancies…
4
I flee the tollbooth
at the heart of indecision—
beyond, a dream of desert
I want so badly to stay it scares me, rising
onto plateau after plateau
dust devils at home
in my ribcage…
5
a tea ceremony, I read,
is conducted with perfect patience
as if this kneeling & these tatami
can have no end— there I go
talking like you’re still here
pressing your longing like autumn leaves
between the shapes of clouds…
1. In a moment of perfect clarity and stillness before disaster,
no life flashed before me. Only a sudden jolt, rushing water,
looming rocks, confused shouts, then silence. Downstream
the rescue crew waited. I gasped just before I went under.
The light – which way was the light?
2. On Sunday afternoons she often walked to Fisherman’s Wharf.
The air was filled with the salty tang from the crab boilers
and sourdough at Boudin Bakery. At Cost Plus she browsed,
bought freshly ground French Roast, then caught the bus home.
The heady scent of the coffee had everyone smiling.
3. At 7 a.m. we climb six flights to the top of the headframe.
The thick wire cable that brings the` ore-filled skip to the surface
winds slowly through the sheave wheel. We watch for corrosion,
kinks or loose wires. Finally, the engineer signs the register.
I take a last longing look at the endless horizon.
4. It seems like a timeless other world. Arrive early, late—
no difference. Always bright lights, windowless. Despite
the tired, reassuring nurses, their upside-down watches,
the hum of electronic monitors—blood pressure, pulse,
notes on a chart—all underscore menace.
5. Roxy’s snoring. Her coat has grown and she’s shedding
but it’s still `too cold for a summer cut. It’s soothing to us too
as we gently brush tangles, leaving her coat soft and silky.
We call her Catdog as she luxuriates in this attention.
She’d purr if she could. Instead, she shakes head to tail, then sleeps.
1.
The Meyer lemon tree in our backyard drops yellow footballs.
We live on the island of suburbia, tile-roofed stucco houses
surrounded by citrus groves till the developers bulldoze them.
Orchards of trunks branched with arms that sprout blossoms
and the whole world wears their scent and swarms with bees.
2.
A new baby sleeps in the bassinet by my parents’ bed,
and I slam through the screen door after my last day of first grade
to view her. Study the profile of daughter number four. Her eyelids
cover blue irises and pupils that will eventually watch me pull her
in a wagon, read Dr. Seuss while we sit on dandelion-ed grass.
3.
In the bakery next to Otro Cafe, a glass case holds fresh baked
Mexican wedding cookies. Hand-molded powder-sugared circles
dolloped with orange marmalade. I drool, gaze at them longingly,
and they seem to gaze back. I hold up fingers like a peace sign,
say “two boxes,” buy all of them, gift half to my love, half to myself.
4.
To avoid weed spray and gas-powered leaf blowers at my house,
I drive to the park and peer through windshield: overgrown trees,
tall, leashed poodle, swings, stranger in calf-high flag socks and blousy
silk boxers. I swear, he stands there wearing only artsy undies –
his backside graphic-ed with a desert scene. Wind wafts fabric.
5.
First, open eyes. Notice the morning light slip through even the closed
shutters. Figure out how to log into the class site, notice that old bio photo
from when I dyed my hair. Gag. Replace it with a wild poppy, recall how
they carpeted my front yard in orange, how my granddaughter,
tiny then, would lie down in them, smile up at the sky.
1. Enigma
I began to light incense when hanging
with a novitiate Buddhist monk, “samanera,”
who tutored me on the art of ringing tingsha bells
and clashing finger symbols for spiritual practices;
in the throes of meditation he reached an inner awareness—
bade me cast aside physical comforts; I balked. Yet I reassess
my values upon the Wolf Moon, lured by his mystic call.
2. Mardi Gras Patrons
Intercity sidewalk musicians fill the Big Easy
blues players strum 12 bar chord progressions
phat sounds filled in by saxophones and Dixie-
Land brass; tourists bathe in waves of music
as men and women beat five-gallon plastic barrels
under porticos like timpani drums, taxi’s blast,
and guitar cases fill with dollar bills and silver coins.
3. Office Op
Mimicking science fiction special effects artists
at work, we often spent sixteen-hour shifts pushing
our imaginations light years beyond our job descriptions
crafting tin foil creatures adorned with eraser heads,
paper clips, staples and stickpins—creating rubber band
catapults or rolled paper blow guns, weapons and battles
put to rest and swept aside before we punched out at 6:00 AM.
4. Black Aces and Eights
Dealing cards, placing wagers, almost confident
my gambling fever feeds a slow burning fire and I’m
stoked by uncertainty’s thrill, bent on consumption
within an aching body, creased, stooped, grey hair
hanging like clumps of silver Christmas tree tinsel,
I imagine each time I gather table chips to my chest
my final draw and personalized dead man’s hand.
5. Twilight
Barking and growling, sealions reposition
themselves upon a wooden pontoon, pushing
young pups back into the fjord as waning rays
of sunlight mix with smoke from local fires
morphing into a maroon horizon; a green light flashes
seven miles in the distance, and herons stick heads
under their wings to sleep on one leg in sandbars.
a day at the beach hunting mammoths1
for my uncle Thomas William O’Brien (1950-2018)
By Jonathan Yungkans
BACK TO TOP >>
1
a polished black stone the size of an acorn / two punctures in it / like finger holes in a bowling ball / something to hang onto / a rhinoceros tooth / Dad a rhinoceros charged me / a slap across my face / a black triangle / a shark tooth / the sting from Dad’s hand / the sudden shock when glass breaks / Dad standing over me / a wave slaps sand / the clouded morning horizon / walls of Uncle Ray’s barn closing in / Dad leaves
2
palm tree in a puddle with the sky closing in / if I could save time in a shiny green bottle / and throw it out to sea / a green chrysanthemum / like the one in a Night Gallery episode that when lighted could chase away / what / for a happy ending / the palm tree upside-down / clouds rising like steam / cradling it up to join them in the sky / nothing floats away / roots stay even when the trunk’s gone
3
Superman’s bright blue / red / gold uniform morphs into white / black / grey / McDonald’s red restaurant roofs go grey / white walls blacken / the mustard in its burgers more vibrant than the corporate logo’s formerly golden arches / floral wallpaper / stripped from walls / which are whitewashed /in homes where people listened to Superman on Philco radios / watched on Zenith televisions / and try to find a green car anywhere / the trend’s for what used to be called battleship grey / it’s everywhere
4
Uncle Tommy went daily to the beach when he got back from Vietnam / the deep-blue Pacific against a 24-karat sunset / gave away anything olive-green or camouflage / lived in jeans / white t-shirts / pack of Pall Mall reds rolled into one sleeve / don’t bug him / Mom said / waking bolt-upright on the couch in the darkened living room / trying to balance the jungle in his head with the waves / the rising tide flow in / around him / between the trees
5
I open the dark-green Starbucks bag to make coffee / pour white creamer into Teri’s Grinch-green mug / the Grinch’s yellow eyes stare back and he smiles his grinchy smile / my own mug’s maroon reminds me of autumn leaves and late sunsets / on my laptop / the sky off the Manhattan Beach is a five-alarm blaze / orange and bright yellow / scarlet / purple bands glow above glistening blue and purple waves / the caption underneath begins / no editing needed
1 Headline from a November 18, 2025 article in The New York Times. Link to article: https://www.nytimes.com/2025/11/17/arts/design/rotterdam-fossils-maasvlakte-2.html Accessed 11/18/2025.
1
two owls hoot back and forth in black-on-black pines / at 10:30 when I go to bed / when I wake at 12:30 / when I get up at 4:30 / train horns / crying sharper and more solitary than usual / sewing the sky with a thread thin as hope / tensile as steel rails / I listen at my desk / don’t move / the owls will hear / hush / leaving a hole / a break in the night’s fabric
21
a steam locomotive / engine and cars bright-colored life-sized toys / snow / a woman waits at the station steps in a lime-green Victorian dress / a horse-drawn sleigh pulls up / a woman in a baby-blue dress / a man in a flat black hat and coat / another sleigh / from the angle as if the horse hoists it skyward / past a white church steeple / past building walls the yellow and orange of autumn leaves / to clear bright- and dark-green treetops.
3
door more old bone than wood / sun-bleached / fissured / hole where the knob had been a portal bypassing the lock rusted tight / through it / onto a long straight road rolling downhill / back up a grade / passing long stands of white birch / a honey rust and fire canopy / crackling / falling leaves becoming embers that glow between trunks / knocked down by rain / the orange middle line flickering / asphalt wet / or melting / rain / or flame / polishing into a sheen
4
a super-size white poodle / walking its owner up the street / while Laurie Anderson sings “O Superman” / ha ha ha ha ha ha ha / Mom would call it a Standard Poodle / Anderson’s synthesized voice / hello / this is your mother / are you there / are you coming home / dog’s leash and owner’s arm taut / well you don’t know me / but I know you / Mom looking lost / forgetting who I am / the dog walking her out of sight
5
I peel small red apples / dry skins spiral / not my great-grandfather’s practiced thin and even ribbons / the surgeon cuts just below Teri’s jawline / follows the scar / peels back skin / a flash / metal clips to remove / apple wedges snap / too dry / white bone segments / cut and crafted with care years earlier into a jawbone from Teri’s lower leg / have fused well / she can go home in a couple of days / where I wait / with steady / clumsy hands
1 Inspired by the painting Train Though Town (1967) by Maud Leris. Link to image: https://cowleyabbott.ca/artwork/AW33614
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Gleam is a journal wholly devoted to the new poetic form, the cadralor, created by Gleam’s founding co-editors, Lori Howe and Christopher Cadra. The cadralor consists of five short, unrelated, highly-visual stanzas.
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• Lori Howe, Editor in Chief
• Christopher Cadra, Senior Editor
Gleam: Journal of the Cadralor 