Send poems to be planted to: remostiller42@gmail.com
ALMOND BLOSSOM
This morning, love, I'm tired and grave;
I can barely hear the wintered bird's small song
over the hum of the central heating.
We must trust, I suppose, to the song's bare minim:
that spring will be a green havoc
as the trees burst their slums
and the dirt breaks open to admit
crocus-spear and cyclamen;
and though we can't yet feel it
earth's already begun
her slow incline, inch by ruined inch,
easing you back from the brink.
— Fiona Benson
SEVERAL TREMENDOUS
—angel of crowning and angel of breaching, angel of leavening,
angel of grieving; angel of elbow, angel of bright, angel of terrible,
monster of terrible; music and terrible, a big small music and several
terrible thousand tremendous; blot everything out, the stars, blot
everything; stop saying broken, stop saying broken; angel of broken,
angel of broken, angel of broken, angel of broken; angel of headlights,
angel of soap, angel of telephone, hurry red telephone; even if my mouth
is closed, even if the song ends; soup, glove, milk, chalk, raise the dead,
finish the thought, cinderblock cinderblock; monsters of terrible, raise
your tusks; faucets of terrible, ignite the aqueducts; the ghost of sleeping,
the ghost of thieving, the ghost of silence, the angel of silence; angel of
silence, angel of silence, angel of silence, angel of silence—
— Richard Siken
Branches
And suddenly, expectedly, mothers started
to reach their arms—fists to elbows—down
their children's mouths and throats and into
the sugar-laden lining of the stomach.
Fathers did too;
husbands their wives'
their husbands' throats; sisters their brothers'
their mothers; and my brothers even reached
into a man on the street with a paper crane.
We'd been told we would find some new
pleasure
there. We had a notion the insides held answers
to all our untenable questions. A teenager might
go missing for days. Her mother would plunge
down the tongues
of the kid's friends; the missing
girl's sister alone in a bedroom would choke
on her own crackling elbows as she grasped
for what she'd forgotten.
Each time an arm
was pulled out of a mouth, it came coated:
In short, the limb once inside made a cast
like a silicone mold
of whatever it touched:
Impressions like pink dish-washing gloves
made of blood guts and dinner
drew out
of the head like a yawn: The coating sloughed
whole off the arm: It peeled off intact as a swim
cap, thick as wax and wriggling
with rubbery veins.
People would squeeze off these casts and leave
them indiscriminately anywhere.
They called
these the branch of an arm for their likenesses
to roots, to the trunks of young trees. Streets
were littered with branches.
In living rooms
people made shelves of the things. Having
been asked through the stomach
for answers
I myself grew a crop of unreachable questions.
I phoned Mother, told her I'd be coming home
soon,
then got ahold of her spleen and found
nothing. I left her with those first little branches
dripping, inspected, and thrown on the eaves.
I branched out to others: my sister
whose roof
in Houston thatched casts of her and her husband's
and her little boys' innards;
sequences of strangers
whose bare-naked knees ground my rug to its stitches
who entered through any obtainable hole
dropped
into me for answers and left empty-handed
the veins on their fingers in the cracks of my grin.
I reached out to the preacher but found only waters
and prison-grade beef.
I littered the drippings
of politicians and recycled a stack of historians'
suppers.
Of late I've been thinking around
the question of my sensitive lover's insides.
I haven't reached often
though 1 wouldn't say
never (his fifth and sixth kidneys are swinging
on cords over the sink to dry; I reached deep)
but not lately or again:
We could make us a pact
to prevent reaching: could stitch half our fingers
together: could start fresh from So nice to meet you.
See my lips—how they part like a seed. Listen
as I ask him to balance his fingers on the buds
at the tip of my tongue.
Watch how I trust the gap
in his teeth without seeing whether my fist
might fit through them. We could stop
at the space
at the edge of a lip with the trace of our fathers
stitched into our hides: intestines in circles
that coil round our feet: with the sleeves
of their innards
as punctuation for our pores
their hair in the thick of our skin we could listen.
— Zach Linge
We are all experts in risk assessment now
veritable authorities in hedging
our bets after gauging severity
against hazard in a matrix of
hypervigilance spurred by
pandemic, insurrection, school
shootings, terrorism, and
normal events like driving in
snowstorms or raising teens
which is why it is such a relief
to be flying on July Fourth eve so
I can watch fireworks without
their startling noise. Taking off
in Detroit en route to Traverse
City: silent glittery bursts peaking
above runway fences and then,
from the air, dotting the darkness
over tiny lakes, across fields,
on tightly packed blocks of
tract houses. I call the flight
attendant over to see through
my porthole of a window small
shimmering explosions on mute
lighting up pockets of land and
night sky like comets or disco
strobes because the jump seat
is windowless and the fireworks
from up here are actually wondrous
without the deleterious booms
or sharp whistling sounds that
give pets and kids anxiety attacks.
Our first Independence Day as
parents we lived (no joke) on
Independence Avenue and no one
warned us that our neighborhood
turned into a sonic war zone encased
in thick smoke, bangs constant
from illegal displays shot off
in every Southeast DC alleyway
but the baby slept through it
miraculously and without distress.
If I promised you from up here
that our bifurcated country is
maybe not totally fucked—that
with every golden willow or pink
peony or crackle star with its
tendrils of light you might forget
about relentless news cycles
or threats to democracy—
that it’s still possible to
have faith in this spectacle
of independence, would you
believe me?
— Erika Meitner
Planted on Sunday, 16 August 2026
Reasons to Live
Because if you can survive
the violet night, you can survive
the next, and the fig tree will ache
with sweetness for you in sunlight that arrives
first at your window, quietly pawing
even when you can't stand it,
and you'll heavy the whining floorboards
of the house you filled with animals
as hurt and lost as you, and the bearded irises will form
fully in their roots, their golden manes
swaying with the want of spring—
live, live, live, live!—
one day you'll put your hands in the earth
and understand an afterlife isn't promised,
but the spray of scorpion grass keeps growing,
and the dogs will sing their whole bodies
in praise of you, and the redbuds will lay
down their pink crowns, and the rivers
will set their stones and ribbons
at your door if only
you'll let the world
soften you with its touching.
