12 GROUNDCOVER NEWS POETRY Answers KAREN TOTTEN Groundcover contributor “My heart hurts,” you, age five say one morning before school, and place your hand on the left side of your body, as if to take an oath. Your frantic parents whisk you to E.R. where doctors and nurses tap and jab, looking for lurking blood clots or infection in the criss-cross vein map of your chest, only to find, with relief, the usual inhabitants of strong, beating muscles. What you really mean is that the nightly war body count on tv is too loud and you can hear it in your sleep. What you really feel is the blunt edge of your dad’s shotgun pressed up against the wood ledge of the front porch those nights of the neighborhood troubles. You want his protection but you have friends out there. What is really happening is that you don’t know yet that you are supposed to act as if heartbreak isn’t real—ignore the nerves of your body standing on end, all the tears in your throat threatening to spill like water from a broken pipe. Voices of the lonely, the sad and hurting, the war sirens, finding their way to your tender young life. How could you know the answers? No one does. Our bodies all bleed red. Our hearts all hurt. Originally published in the Spring Peninsula Poets edition 2023 Viola's visitor KAREN TOTTEN It was Jesus Christ of Nazareth at the kitchen door last Tuesday, or so my Grandmother Viola was asked to call a thin, long-haired man in coveralls who wandered around her side yard in the steady rain, knocked quietly after lunch, chose her door along that stretch of highway. Years back, Viola owned tourist cabins behind her house, lodging for tired pilgrims dusty from the muddy roads, travelers heading up north to the vacation lakes each summer or south to Miami out of winter’s spindly grasp. Was this man looking for shelter from the storm? Had he heard of her hospitality in years before, the home-cooked breads and chowders, the warm lilac-scented blankets on the beds? Or did he long for affirmation, a nod from someone who just might recognize his divine face? True story. Golden hour is cast over the Michigan fields ADRIANA ALCALA Groundcover contributor And though I haven’t seen it I don’t need eyes to know in my heart that the sun is shining down on a blanket of moss in the backyard of the trailer park I called home. Faux dewed fruits in braided baskets, dirt covered shed, cobblestone path; This place casts a spell over me. Shadow lines crossing the median Deer legs dancing ghosts along the highway. Sun setting, remembering those fields of pink passing all of my homes. Ward off the darkness forever. Drive on and never return My grandmother was very Catholic, crosses and paintings of holy figures in her home, lots of religious iconography. Devout. Enamored of John F. Kennedy. A note: the name Viola was invented by Shakespeare for his play Twelfth Night. APRIL 5, 2024 HOPE DIANA FEAD Groundcover contributor I awake in the sun's shadows. Listening, I hear no sounds. Searching for hope in the darkness, Did you leave or are you around? I'm alone, where do I go now, Searching for your burning flame? If you're not alive within me, Do you go by some other name? Can feelings surprise and ring true, Or a song speak just the right words? A memory stirs in my daydream, Your voice crying out to be heard. Shout my name, you say, come together, Trust me to give us a chance. Follow my voice, and I'll hear you Singing that hope's still alive.
13 Publizr Home