Calyx
(after “Housekeeping” by Marilynne Robinson) 

O, make of my teeth. a sieve. 
drink. from this. font of mercy. 
make of my body. a community. 

lips nets. filter all impurity. 
every virus. every bruised silted 
eye. sifted. through. every hurt.

sold. let tears collected. saltcrust. 
make from them. crystalized. calyx. 
tinkering grass. swaying. invisible breeze. 

realized. glazed stalks. bowing. to receive. 
caresses. gentle kiss. on the forehead. 
gentle hand. on the back. gentled. 

fingertips. sepal split. let me reach. up. 
with both fists. & grasp the wind. that 
joy withheld. cast into the sky. for me 

to find. now. to harvest. to harness.
to imbibe. how then. to live. now. 
with such hunger. on the wind. with danger.

fanning out. in every direction. if i could.
lay a table. for four hundred thousand. 
for all of the empty chairs. lost. and we are.

still losing. pushed away. from the table. 
here. i set a place. for every heart. take up all. silver. 
every syringe. gather up. the mercury. every 

fevered thermometer. cobble together. each scalpel. 
open chested. melted into. oneflowingsubstance. 
pressed. then cooled. into utensils. for our feast.

this is one way. we remind our.selves we are. alive. 
we survive. by silver linings. we dine on. & 
even while falling. peeled away. from seats. 

full. too early. it is salt-glinted things. 
that shine us. into understanding. 
we were always. whole. 
 
this is how. i will sing. for you our supper.

————————————–

Adrian Dallas Frandle called us from Stratford, CT.

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"Calyx" by Adrian Dallas Frandle

Make me
dim-witted. One
of those days where
I can’t bare it—the hum
of madness. My belly wreaking
havoc up and down my spine,
intestines in a knot.
Garlic! Disgusting! or maybe
you called it gross & I called it
get me out of here.

A different morning: I’m spinning
sex between my fingers.
Cavorting with an old pillow
case hoping you’ll come along
and lift my top.

As a kid I would peel the skin
off of grapes with my two front teeth
and gently push the innards
into my cheek with my tongue
keeping it safe before coming
down on it with a hard chew. Pulpy
swallow & the great disappointment:
here was a truly valuable soft thing
that I had worked hard for
& didn’t know what to do with.

————————————–

Hannah Rubin called us from Los Angeles, CA.

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"I Rage about You, You Old Ghost" by Hannah Rubin

barking up the right trees
stuck on the double branch 

don’t climb if you can’t get down 
if you can’t get down 

better learn to 
jump 

the kids are so back 
vlog squad with baby teeth 
sucking back cinnamon 
getting pantsed by their dads 
tamogotchi death hits all seven stages 
and everyone knows 
that the moon is made of cheese
that green eggs go great 
on a ham sandwich 
that cyber bullying 
is cooler when everyone is doing it

slip-&-slide into stardust 
along greenwood grass
burning the summer 
at both ends 
there’s glass in the pool 
marco polo cut short 
feet cut deep 
red & blue sunburns 
on chlorine skin 
remember when sunscreen 
used to work 
the first time 

fallen hotdog 
soldier slipped 
between truck slats 
hunger driven dance-moves 
filled with 
cruel intentions 
no amount of ketchup 
can cure a broken heart 
but a viral video 
is a bandaid solution 
for missing lunch 

category is horse 
category is narwhal 
category is charades 
is easy when every answer 
is the right answer 
guess flamingo 
guess spider
guess where your hamster went 
I promise you’ll be happy 
with the results 

The kids are so back 
but seriously 
don’t climb a tree 
if you don’t know how 
to get down 
or if your mom can’t 
find the ladder 

but by some act of god 
if you find yourself up there

just close your eyes
try and remember 

how to 
jump

————————————–

Morgan Tessier called us from Toronto, Ontario.

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"The Kids Are So Back" by Morgan Tessier

In front of the laundromat 
a cigarette grows out 
of stub and ash, smoke 
seeps from lungs 
back into sticky-dry 
tobacco, red hot cherry 
backs away from filter, 
reshapes as fire, jets back 
into bic lighter, gas 
condenses into fluid.
Came back unsmoked 

to haunt our past 
selves down. Almost 
a room in the outskirts, 
we write each other 
out. Eyes like wildness, 
your torso tree trunk, we 
careless pass a bottle 
of warm stolen vodka. 
Sing songs of chipmunks, 
chase each other up plum 
trees, over roofs 
of cars, fluff each others 
tails before we scamper 
through the oaken 
night to bury acorns. 
Came back to teach us 

how to make 
our bodies out of muddy leaves, shape 
our faces from 
a pliant clay. Crop 
vineyard hair, cattail 
braids, let snakes 
grow as they may. 
Pluck river stone 
out of the water, 
become ourselves 
a river. Chisel cloven 
feet for gravel dancing. 
Came back to sing 

again I think, 
together. Seek 
each other out 
by scent, taste 
clove smoke. Dig 
up the acorns, 
and with our fingers 
dirt-caked set them 
shiny in our mouths 
as teeth and gilding 
for our crowns.

————————————–

Allegra Wilson called us from Santa Rosa, CA.

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"Smoke Elder" by Allegra Wilson

This is what you are 
missing Melissa – dust turned to waves 
in the desert – okra coming up two months
too late – a forward-breaking gate opening
into someone else’s field – I walk by
a window and I don’t understand how little I see
you – but so clearly the wasp backing out
of a hole inside a long-dead
tree – when we were children we lived 
with our grandparents and I remember without 
sadness mostly the sound of tires screaming into 
the street – the porch light welcomes 
whatever intercepts it – I praise
insistence – I kiss
my love because our best friend died
when we were 5 years old – a brain tumor –
and then again at 7, 11, 17…43 – bodies 
killing themselves by growing
beyond their own capacity – I’m building
a bed for our visitors – it’s infuriating how little
I understand about re-joining wood already broken
piece by piece – anticipate everything
I hear God saying to no one – I’m still listening
when you stop, for a moment, breathing  
in your sleep – I’m recognizable
now as a part of the man who made me – 
every man is a suspect – inside my own mouth
I’m annoyed by who I cannot seem to be –
do you miss this Melissa – every part of our body 
is ash aching to be reminded it is ash – unlike fire 
reaching through the face of every forest 
in order to be incited by wind or offered 
some relief – I’ve learned to flinch 
by standing absolutely still – it isn’t death exactly living
without you – the purpose of a rope 
is to borrow someone else’s strength – that’s why
I’m calling you – when I pray I hear nothing 
so clearly as our new voice 
singe-scoured and full of disbelief –

————————————–

TC Tolbert called us from Tucson, AZ.

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"This is What You Are" by TC Tolbert

It's a bus stop in South America
And crossing five lanes of traffic
At ten in the morning.
It's quiet, 
More than we were expecting.
The taxi is late for arrival and I am thankful for every second.

It's not knowing the language
And our tensions so high,
A tennis court in my chest.
Love was being rewritten in my head
You were becoming the epitome of sacrifice.

You asked me what I would answer if you pledged me to marry you.
I said I’d wait a few years
And that was the correct response.
It’s a man in a bulletproof vest asking you the intention of your visit,
To give her hope.

We cross out of the city.
There are dogs on rooftops,
We are sharing headphones
And the glass begins to fog in the humid jungle evening.
Whatever home there is left
I find it as I lay my head on your shoulder.
There is a song humming subtly over the foreign soap opera on the TV.
It’s not quite your taste
But it is my favorite.

You will be able to sleep on the plane
And I won't ever again for the next two years.

————————————–

Ky Pacheco called us from Flagstaff, AZ.

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"You Won't Ever Again be in Love in a Foreign Country" by Ky Pacheco

There are few mornings like this –
When the tumble day slows
and the sweltering July heat subsides;
when memories of last night’s fire show
resonate with a still-first sense of wonder.

The footfall of Fatherhood feels fine underneath;
I am comfortable here, at peace with a
stirring that has often lingered in the quiet process of thinking.
My daughter turns her eyes aware,
Expecting the dance of color in the thick night sky,
and utters with perfect sincerity the answer her mother and I
had first provided to her own plea for more “firewoooorrrks!”
“Later, next year,” she repeats.

She seems to understand –
just as she is profoundly unaware that stirring
in her mommy’s womb just now, the slightest mobility towards life
of her first sibling yet to be born.

The sky creeps thoughtfully, 
grateful it seems that the booms have subsided,
for now – until “Later, next year.”
The clouds pass lightly as we look upward
to dream of a better place.
This unsummer in its brilliant disguise –
cool, elusive, uncharted.

The tongues amongst the people
do not complain of lasting heat
nor of humidity.
Instead, the cool, soft morning greets them,
allowing children to play.

————————————–

Dan J. Kirk called us from Pittsburgh, PA.

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"This is Poetry Time" by Dan J. Kirk

The leaving was such that each apple
in the orchard glassed over into ghost-form

on a single night. Centers rotted, dropped out,
only translucent orbs at the end of wooded knots remained.

A buck arrives, noses them to the ground.
His only want: to hear the shatter. First my grandmother,

then my brother. A permanent Autumn settles across my face.
Brinks become a fabric to dress in.

I practice sewing parts of my body shut:
the mouth, an ear, the space between my fingers.

At the edge of the orchard I find an owl.
Bring my hands around the middle of the algid body,

between my palms it moves as dead things move.
Still, I’m gentle as I walk the owl out of the orchard

to the place of bramble and stumps. Lay the bird out like a boat,
like a baby in the arms, like a dirge.

Slow gold light slips,
the night freeze blackens fruit trees.

I continue to visit the owl. The spiders come.
The flies, too. For a moment one of the owl’s eyes opens.

I look through the eye into the back of his death,
parts of flight and story leak out.

The collapse of the left lung: green.
The collapse of the right lung: sky.

I’ve only ever had one good dream
in 46 years of bad dreams and it was of sleeping

in a moon field with my daughter while friends
placed inocybe between my teeth.

The eye of the owl closes.
The buck says it’s peaceful here, to be with you like this.

I don’t say anything because I don’t speak anymore.
Within a streak of light, wasps fly out of the ground

as leaves fall in the orchard.
I become a ghost apple at the nose of a buck.

————————————–

Kelly Gray called us from Camp Meeker, CA.

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"The Coldening" by Kelly Gray

Begins with texts to my best friend.
Do you want to hear my revenge fantasy?
Let’s get iced coffee and be brats.
Learned helplessness is a crime.
Success is an art. I’m working on my MFA.
That’s deeply stupid. 
I’m reviewing my life choices in this Greek restaurant.
Not everyone needs to be a Very Interesting Person.
Who needs a human man? Shadow Daddies exist.
I’m having revenge fantasies. The taste of blood.
That’s deeply brilliant.
I would destroy him. For you.
I’m in love with everything.
I prefer to move in silence.

————————————–

Stephanie Valente called us from Brooklyn, NY.

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"Revenge Fantasy" by Stephanie Valente

I’m waiting for the tram, picking plums 
but really what I’m doing is looking, longingly 
higher up where most of the fruit is sitting ripe.
A man approaches  — 
bald but for a crown of white hair, lightweight vest, faded tattoos
of an old sailor, two breasty mermaids with red lips.
Do you want me to pull down the branch, he asks 
and I say yes please thank you 
and he does 
and suddenly I’m ensconced in the leaves, enveloped by the tree.
I pick the plums one at a time, each a little ball of orange red fruit.
That’s all for now, I say, and he starts to let go— then reconsiders.
He pulls the branch back down
takes matters into his own hands. His wide fingers 
grab fistfuls of fruit and drop them in my bag. 
Just as many fall to the ground and there are errant leaves and twigs,
all component parts of the tree are now there, in my bag, in pieces.
What a joy, to seize something entirety in pursuit of the one sweet part, 
the part that could be crushed by a closing palm.
What a delight, to move with abandon, to ignore precision,
to choose clear cutting over particular picking. 
Could my own hands claim what’s in front of them so confidently? 
Could they take so completely?
I run into the street to catch the tram, 
whose yellow doors are already swinging open.

————————————–

Ashira Morris called us from Sofia, Bulgaria.

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"Street Plums" by Ashira Morris

Poetry via voicemail. Missed calls you need to hear.

Open submissions accepted.
Guidelines at http://voicemailpoems.org

"Calyx" by Adrian Dallas Frandle

VOICEMAIL POEMS