After the Auction, I Bid You Good-Bye

by Aimee Nezhukumatathil

You elbow me with your corduroy jacket
when a box chock-full of antique marbles comes up.
I can’t hear your whispers above the auctioneer’s racket.

The clipped speech of the auctioneer cracked
me up when you impersonated him in bed. Like a wild, thick
        mop
I soak up every copper smell from your corduroy jacket.

In two days, I will drive you to the airport, packed
with other couples pressed tightly at the top
of the escalator. Lines sear my cheek from your corduroy
        jacket

when we hug—then a quick kiss good-bye tacked
on at the end. I’ll finger the rim on the paper coffee cup
you leave in my car. When I hear your name I can’t forget

how your long torso pressed against my bare back,
bluish in this early light. Your fingers shot into me, popped
my spine into a wicked arch. There is no lack

of how it haunts me still—what I bid—lost, sacked
and wrapped for other girls. I should have looked up
to see who else was bidding, but I studied the folds in your
        jacket.
My limit is spent, loud and certain as the auctioneer’s racket.

Aimee Nezhukumatathil, “After the Auction, I Bid You Good-Bye” from AT THE DRIVE-IN VOLCANO. Copyright © 2007 by Aimee Nezhukumatathil.

Most Poetry will post a poem by a poet of color, selected by our members, each day through the month of July.

Talent

by Layli Long Soldier

my first try I made a hit it dropped from morning gray the smallest shadow both wings slipped
inward mid-flight the man barked Now I shot again and again a third time with each arrow
through the target I thought was it luck or was it skill luck or skill as the last one fell
 
 
its awkward shape made me run there pulsing on the ground I was astounded by its size a
gangly white goose throbbed heaved its head my eyes dropped blood flowers opened in the
snow of its neck behind my shoulder stepping down from a yellow bus
 
 
child made their way across the field I shot once more to end it quickly close range its death
did I do this to spare the bird from suffering or to spare the children the sight my motives in
humid cold yes my knuckles in the cold steamed bright red
 
 
because on my stomach in grass in rubber boots pockets and vests I slid along with that hunter I
did as he directed from quiver my draw my black lashes in steely eyed release it felt good there
it felt strong my breath in autumn was an animal there I thought did I really do this        did I
really yet what difference is muscle is an arrow powered upward or any flight to center when I
did not hear it though I clearly mouthed poor thing poor thing poor thing

Layli Long Soldier, “Talent” from WHEREAS. Copyright © 2017 by Layli Long Soldier.

Most Poetry will post a poem by a poet of color, selected by our members, each day through the month of July.

Sweet Onion Soup

by Tim Seibles

When a man is killed
the wind doesn’t cool his face
and the sky is like an urn, like
a painted bowl turned over on him.
He’s so weak lying there—his hand
is like a starfish too far from the sea.
He would like to lift it up and
place it over his face to fend off
the glare of things still living.
And even if his stomach is empty
he only wants a little to eat—maybe
half-a-slice of bread and one spoonful
of sweet onion soup. Not like
when he was alive, which already seems
three Aprils ago, when he would eat
everything he could fit
into his eyes. “One time,”
his father told him, “when your cousin
turned his head to sneeze
you stole the porkchop off his plate.”
But when a man is killed he
doesn’t remember being a boy very much—
maybe a few things, like trying
to keep a bullfrog in a shoebox
or having to sit still in church
while his father’s raised right eyebrow
flew above him like a hawk.
But he’s in such a helpless mood.
His mouth is dry and he can’t quite
move his tongue across his lips
which is something he used to do
all the time.

“Sweet Onion Soup” from Hurdy-Gurdy
by Tim Seibles, © 1992
Cleveland State University Poetry Center

Most Poetry will post a poem by a poet of color, selected by our members, each day through the month of July.

Passive Voice

by Laura Da’

I use a trick to teach students
how to avoid passive voice.

Circle the verbs.
imagine inserting “by zombies”
after each one.

Have the words been claimed
by the flesh-hungry undead?
If so, passive voice.

I wonder if these
sixth graders will recollect,
on summer vacation,
as they stretch their legs
on the way home
from Yellowstone or Yosemite
and the byway’s historical marker
beckons them to the
site of an Indian village—

Where trouble was brewing.
Where, after further hostilities, the army was directed to enter.
Where the village was razed after the skirmish occurred.
Where most were women and children.

Riveted bramble of passive verbs
etched in wood—
stripped hands
breaking up from the dry ground
to pinch the meat
of their young tongues.

“Passive Voice” from TRIBUTARIES by Laura Da’ copyright 2015 by Laura Da’.

Most Poetry will post a poem by a poet of color, selected by our members, each day through the month of July.

Anasazi

by Tacey M. Atsitty

How can we die when we’re already
prone to leaving the table mid-meal
like Ancient Ones gone to breathe
elsewhere. Salt sits still, but pepper’s gone
rolled off in a rush. We’ve practiced dying
for a long time: when we skip dance or town,
when we chew. We’ve rounded out
like dining room walls in a canyon, eaten
through by wind—Sorry we rushed off;
the food wasn’t ours. Sorry the grease sits
white on our plates, and the jam that didn’t set—
use it as syrup to cover every theory of us.

From RAIN SCALD. Copyright © 2018 by University of New Mexico Press.

Most Poetry will post a poem by a poet of color, selected by our members, each day through the month of July.