Alison Stone
Outdated Ghazal
To be reborn, break the caul of the past.
Take off the moth-eaten shawl of the past.
This moment’s open doors and empty rooms.
Portraits, mirrors line the hall of the past.
Cow blood on the sheet can save a bride’s life.
Danger of scripture, alcohol, the past.
How to Cope
Stare at flowers.
Not the snap-necked daffodils or the hyacinth your husband flattened with the car.
Take in the unblemished blossoms left.
Remind yourself that future thoughts
and prayers probably won’t be for your town
and if your town, not your kid’s school.
And if they are, statistically your child
would be scared but safe, hiding in a closet
under mops or climbing from a window, running
dazed toward the expressway to flag help.
Poem with Snow White, Don Lemon, and Madonna’s Face
Even a mirror
can adopt the Male Gaze.
Mnemonic Pantoum
Hospital, pet, concert, third grade crush.
How is it decided which memories last,
which fade like Krazy Kolor from a punk teen’s hair?
I’ll never forget the beagle shot in Daddles.
Woman Goes to Work
(a found poem, except for line 4)
When the rubber tree-tapper did not return,
her husband searched and found her sandals, jacket,
headscarf, and work tools.
This is not a metaphor for capitalism.
Decision
On John Lennon’s birthday,
a flood of tributes and grief. I keep
my it-could-have-been-worse relief
to myself. True, any homicide’s a tragedy, the loss
of a great talent even more so,
but it was Bowie who gave my odd
teenage self permission to exist,
hot starman I both lusted for
and yearned to be.
The killer got his list down to those two.
Monsters, Bees, Desires
The boy fears monsters, things that creep at night.
Beds half-empty, the widows weep at night.
I walk with my mother through a moonlit
town only accessible in sleep. Night
holds its prisoners tight. So does guilt. Too
much vodka – our clothes in a heap that night.
Linguistic
Sometimes I regret teaching you words,
my daughter laments when I use kin
and stan in a sentence
about Emily Dickinson. One perk
of having kids is stepping
into culture’s river at its current point,
Again
The Ten Dead Adults In The Supermarket
Are Pushed Aside By Nineteen Children
who smile naively from photographs –
Her proudly-raised Honor Roll certificate,
his “Change Maker” t-shirt.
For Christmas cards, politicians
pose their families with guns.
The guns shine. The guns are bleeding
the children again. Again
and yet again, rounds spent in endless repetition.
That church or concert hall. This classroom
with floors bleached, swept clean
of hair and bone. What needs to be done
not done. “The school had too many doors.”
Holes blown through their hearts, the parents
buy wood boxes, carved stone.
The Depp Heard Trial
She fears abandonment, his mom abused him.
Love twists into bitter repetition.
There’s always a deeper layer of pain,
a wound beneath the urge to hurt.
Self-Portrait March 2022
Warring nations mingle in my blood –
Russia, Germany, Ukraine, all the great-
great somebodies who boarded ships
pulled toward America’s promise-paved streets.
Their passports all stamped Jew.