City of Bridges

By Terrance Hayes

Representative Doolittle thanks his left hand with his right hand,
Then thanks us, honored he says to have toured a city bridged
By more bridges than there are bridges in any other city in this fine state,
But not saying too much more so that his esteemed colleague,

Representative Hot Rod might say thank you
Representative Droolittle, and then thank us, the constituents,
Of a fine city he says, bridged by more bridges than there are states of the mind,
But not saying too much more so that his esteemed colleague,

Representative Sneakers with Dress Pants might say thank you
Representative Hard Rot and then thank us, the constituents
Of city bridged, he says by more bridges than there are mines in a Coal mining town,
But not saying too much more so that his esteemed colleague,

Representative Eat and Run might say thank you
Representative Sneaks in Dresses and then thank this fine city bridged,
He believes, by more bridges than there are ways to make war an industry,
But not saying too much more so that his esteemed colleagues,

Representative Toy Box and Representative Botox might say
Thank you Representative Eat Runts and sing something
About starlight and reciprocality in two part harmony
While the retired and aspiring representatives wait to say without saying it:

Thank you to the ears, noses and throats of campaign headquarters,
Thank you to the neck tied fork suckers and the little sacks of sugar,
Thank you to the delegates of the delegates and the rulers of abstract truth,
Thank you all for coming out tonight to help us build bridges and cross them

And then cross back and then cross them again before crossing back:
The rivers are deep, we’ve been told. The rivers are wide and needful as money.

The Yellow Cup

By Terrance Hayes

I have been a yellow cup full and empty but also as quiet
As the mouth of a yellow cup waiting for your
Mouth. I have been held in the hands of night’s
Curious machine. I have been a yellow cup holding the hour
That measures nothing. Or measures the night as if
It was nothing and measures the day as if it was milk poured
Into nothing and warmed. If your name is the shape of what it
Fills, fill me. If you are steam unraveling or a scent crawling out,
If you are a mouth divided by speaking or a small brown hand, lift
Me. I have been a yellow cup. If the rain comes, and you put
Me on the sill, I will ask what I did not ask you before.
I will wait anywhere you say in a simple room, but
I will not sleep and I will not remain awake. When you sip your
Tea wearing nothing by the bureau, when you are filled,
The warmth of your thirst will make me thirsty. Pour
Something into my body or make me empty. I have no will
Or I have no more will than a yellow cup this hour
Of the night. You can break me. You can make me clean and filthy.

Summer Sweets

By Meribeth C. Shank

Teri and Sheri are going out to pick raspberries in the garden behind the garage. “We will have raspberry muffins for supper,” says Teri. “We will have butter on hot muffins.”
“Sheri,” says Teri, “you pick at that end. I will start right here. We will meet in the middle.” Sheri walks along the path. She begins to pick at the edge of the raspberry bushes. The prickly stems hurt. There are only a few berries in her pail. Sheri hears squabbling. Four blue jays are sitting on a fence.
“Prickly,” squawk the jays. “Give up.” Sheri runs to Teri.
“Teri,” says Sheri. “These bushes are too prickly. I give up.”
“Let’s try it differently,” says Teri. “Put on these work gloves. Maybe that will help.” Sheri goes back to her pail. She begins to pick. But this time she has to reach farther and she gets scratched.
“Some plan!” screech the jays. “Not enough.” Sheri runs back to Teri.
“This is some plan,” she says, showing the scratches. “This is no way to get enough berries to eat.”

“We have to try again,” says Teri. “Put on this shirt with long sleeves. Maybe that will help.” Sheri puts on the shirt. She goes back to pick again. Her pail has more berries in it, but the berries are harder to reach. Her legs begin to itch from all the scratches.
“Impossible!” shriek the jays. “Go home.” Sheri runs back to Teri.
“These bushes are impossible,” she says. “Let’s take our pails and go back.”
“We’ll give it one more try,” says Teri. “Put on these coveralls. Pull your socks up high, and see if you can fill your pail.” Sheri carefully pulls on the coveralls. She fixes her socks. She even pulls on a cap from the pocket.
Then she begins to pick. Soon she has filled her pail almost full of berries. Sheri stops to chew and swallow a few berries as she and Teri move closer together.
“We’ve got it!” Sheri says, licking her lips.
“Yes!” says Teri. “All it took was gloves, and a long sleeved shirt and coveralls, and socks pulled up high. The cap was a good idea, too.”
The jays fly off the fence, but they cannot reach any berries to eat without getting scratched. Teri and Sheri finish their picking and go whistling into the house to make raspberry muffins for supper — with butter.

Garden of Night

By Elizabeth H. Shank

Come,
walk with me Love,
through the garden of night.

With the curved, golden blade
of the new moon sickle,
I’ll cut Thee a bouquet
of dreams.

Dark Chocolate

By Meribeth C. Shank

With a hungry
mouth,
the moon’s tongue
slices
through
a chocolate sky,
licking
the pudding
bowl of night,
swallowing
darkness
until
all that’s
left
is light.