Martha Silano
Out of Eden
and into my front yard. Kentucky Blue.
Into knowing each year the Hyundai
parked beside my bed of kale melts
a block of Arctic ice the size of a school bus.
I want to kneel right here beside the sumac,
its leaves the sharp red tongues of dragons,
want to hug the boy bicycling down Hudson,
his wild and gorgeous hair. Praise a city
for cleaning grease and oil from sewers
so they don’t end up in the Sound.
That I can still find something lifting,
like the heavy geese above me heading south
as I yank a few weeds. Like the fog
that makes the webs in the ivy easier to see.
Self-Portrait as Shaken or Stirred
The shame of being less than grenadine.
Blue Hawaii, a complicated cold.
The stumble and spin past concrete monstrosities,
half-wheeled lies. The tikki bar, its odes
to Dark and Stormy, the bitter and the bracing.
The spirit-forward disappointments, the swizzle
stick schemes, the simple syrup heists,
the Mai Thai of reckoning. Sweetness squeezed
from passion’s pulp. The sobriety garnish
no longer in vogue. Painkiller offering no relief.
Daiquiri-ed like Papa. Crushed like rocks.
A breeze that snapped and strained, morphed
to a Hurricane. The Sapphire Highball dulled.
Spun-out like a Sidecar at the Last-Call Lounge.
Martha Silano is the author of five poetry books, including Gravity Assist (forthcoming March 2019), The Little Office of the Immaculate Conception, and Reckless Lovely, all from Saturnalia Books. She also co-authored, with Kelli Russell Agodon, The Daily Poet: Day-By-Day Prompts For Your Writing Practice. Her poems have appeared in Paris Review, Poetry, and American Poetry Review, among others. Martha teaches at Bellevue College, near her home in Seattle, WA. Visit: marthasilano.net
Return to the January 2019 Edition
and into my front yard. Kentucky Blue.
Into knowing each year the Hyundai
parked beside my bed of kale melts
a block of Arctic ice the size of a school bus.
I want to kneel right here beside the sumac,
its leaves the sharp red tongues of dragons,
want to hug the boy bicycling down Hudson,
his wild and gorgeous hair. Praise a city
for cleaning grease and oil from sewers
so they don’t end up in the Sound.
That I can still find something lifting,
like the heavy geese above me heading south
as I yank a few weeds. Like the fog
that makes the webs in the ivy easier to see.
Self-Portrait as Shaken or Stirred
The shame of being less than grenadine.
Blue Hawaii, a complicated cold.
The stumble and spin past concrete monstrosities,
half-wheeled lies. The tikki bar, its odes
to Dark and Stormy, the bitter and the bracing.
The spirit-forward disappointments, the swizzle
stick schemes, the simple syrup heists,
the Mai Thai of reckoning. Sweetness squeezed
from passion’s pulp. The sobriety garnish
no longer in vogue. Painkiller offering no relief.
Daiquiri-ed like Papa. Crushed like rocks.
A breeze that snapped and strained, morphed
to a Hurricane. The Sapphire Highball dulled.
Spun-out like a Sidecar at the Last-Call Lounge.
Martha Silano is the author of five poetry books, including Gravity Assist (forthcoming March 2019), The Little Office of the Immaculate Conception, and Reckless Lovely, all from Saturnalia Books. She also co-authored, with Kelli Russell Agodon, The Daily Poet: Day-By-Day Prompts For Your Writing Practice. Her poems have appeared in Paris Review, Poetry, and American Poetry Review, among others. Martha teaches at Bellevue College, near her home in Seattle, WA. Visit: marthasilano.net
Return to the January 2019 Edition