The Best American Poetry 2015 (19 page)

are full of bees

the pretty white

panicles

everywhere

light

turn them

frantic

as they haul

their pollen

baskets

from star

to star

to fragrant

star this

industry

thrumming

in the hearts

of flatland

plums hums

in the lucky

air far

from where

war

goes on

and on and

here on

the sun-lit

prairie light

winds shift

and dusky

nouns are sung

from the trees

where an owl

frowns

in sleep

and later

comes

in the guise

of ghost

to say

he knows

that all

the people

in a world

without bees

are lost

from
Blackbird

Ronald Reagan for Donald Fagen.

Tijuana for Madonna.

This vale of tears for ten good years.

This schmuck I picked up in Indonesia for a bucket of anesthesia.

An icicle for a bicycle.

My neighbor's hollyhock trellis for Dock Ellis.

Jim (or Jimmy-o, if he'll permit) DeMint for a bit of lint.

A pay-as-you-go princess (read: overpriced hotté) for an iced latte.

A booster seat for some rooster meat.

A year in jail for some kale.

A turtle (either box or leatherhead) for a feather bed.

Gehrig, Unitas, Chamberlain (a bunch of dead jocks) for lunch with Redd Foxx.

A cat named Frisky for a vat of whiskey.

The color red for a feller named Jed.

A crate of elastic for a second-rate spastic.

A “C'mon, Cody, that's not very PC” shellacking for (and why not?) the Academy of American Poets' backing.

The Jackie Gleason Diet for a little peace and quiet.

Someone who dislikes (unlike us)
V
for a ficus tree.

An acceptable level of risk for a bowl of lobster bisque.

Former Seattle Seahawk and current KIRO newscaster Steve Raible for a tucked-away-in-the-corner-and-absolutely-not-double-booked New Year's Eve table.

Target (the store) for a degree in folklore.

The Business Section of
The New York Times
for a few more rhymes.

My imprisoned twin (and please, treat him nice) for Jim Rice.

A toy train (toot, toot) for a zoot suit.

A surfer-turned-robber's botched bank job (“gnarly”) for Bob Marley.

These “Good God, I'm suddenly feeling cold and sick” shivers for “Mick the Quick” Rivers.

The voices in my head for Joyce's “The Dead.”

A damaged and circling Space Shuttle that NASA won't let dock for a pet rock.

My EVIL THOUGHTS (evil; did I stammer?) for a hammer.

A ticket to Loserdom for some booze or gum.

A ticket to Nowhere for a stern warning: Don't Go There.

Electronica rap for a quick, uh, nap.

A punch in the ear for a buncha beer.

My girlfriend's personality-test result (“Freako Chick,” which quite shocked her) for Ferdie Pacheco, the quick-stitch Fight Doctor.

A rotten grin for a cotton gin.

An irresponsible payout for a possible way out.

A hanging slider for a spider.

President William “Who Wants to Fight?” Howard Taft for a Million-Points-of-Light–powered raft.

Any two items of choice apparel (coats, stockings, pants) for Joyce Carol Oates's mocking glance.

One of those hard-to-believe jobs (gaffer? third mate?) for a buffalo-herd gate.

Today's sorrows for tomorrow's.

Overheard speech by Shakespeare when he was drunk and distracted (minor quotes) for you-can't-really-say-that-about-Zeppelin redacted liner notes.

Some bullshit homeroom teacher no one wants for a home-run hitter who also bunts.

“Hey, choose me” pandering for some woozy meandering.

Holly round the house for a Muhammad Ali roundhouse.

This nearly spent pen for some I-have-no-idea-where-the-time-went Zen.

The porn version of
The Little Engine That Could
for the possibility of making good.

A “Death, where is thy sting?” tattoo for, I don't know, something taboo.

A table at any of the nearby Benihanas for ten iguanas.

A too-sweet dessert—say, a snickerdoodle—for a too-precious craft-piece—say, a wicker poodle.

A Roman brick ruin for a romantic shoo-in.

Someone mistaking me for Lance Armstrong (“Hi, Lance!”) for silence.

A Fujitsu waterproof shower phone (or a dour crone) for an hour alone.

Some honest-to-God (God? You bet) belief for some debt relief.

The freakish good luck of Arthur Conan Doyle for, fuck, anyone loyal.

Fred Astaire for bus fare.

My two-timin' great-uncle for Simon & Garfunkel.

A bought-in-the-Market-Square mini-drum for the bare minimum.

My favorite Yeti for Dave Righetti.

A thoughtless—uh-oh!—clown for a throwdown.

Any kind of already-banned quota for Manny Mota.

My iPhone, my Swiffer, my fogless mirror, anything that is, I swear to you, shoddy, for a “Whatever, it was hot when I brought it to you” toddy.

John Travolta, Gabe Kaplan, or Lawrence Hilton-Jacobs (really, any
Welcome Back, Kotter
entertainer) for a Bangladeshi otter trainer.

An almond steamer for a lemur.

Some long-suppressed gossip about former Baltimore Mayor Kurt (which is how he still likes to be addressed) Schmoke for your best joke.

A major-sized mystery caper for a plagiarized History paper.

The ghost of Truman for some roasted cumin.

Anything from a church (the altar, a splash of Holy Water, the wood pews) for some good news.

Anything reckoned dear for a second beer.

The dropping of charges (reckless endangerment, indecent exposure) for closure.

A “Dear Twit” letter for something a bit better.

The less-than-distinguished GOP field for a DiCaprio biopic:
Leo, Revealed
.

The blessèd (I do reckon) dead for your second-best bed.

A drawer of dimes for some more rhymes.

A veiled promise of matrimony from Mr. Met (“I do, but not yet”) for a true tête-à-tête.

The righteous man's path (Thank Christ!) for the aftermath of a bank heist.

Bounty, the quicker picker-upper, for some no-count count's Brie-with-liquor-kicker supper.

A cup of roux for a schtup or two.

A battle-tested cry (“Let us in!”) for the rest of my medicine.

A brand-new wok for Lou Brock.

An ain't-I-wild, flapper-style milieu for a childnapper who aims to steal you.

A complicated fate (healthy, books well reviewed, but penniless, and stuck on a street corner, forced to beg, alone) for a megaphone.

A game of catch for an aimless letch.

The bark of a seal for anything real.

Faye Dunaway for a foreign—“How you say?”—runaway.

A staggering (“Just one last swig”) Billy Joel for a big chili bowl.

A “Baby baby what's the matter?” kiss for that or this.

My ex-girlfriend (a pill-popper, a lout, a jaw-clencher) for a kill-or-be-killed proper outlaw adventure.

These constant cries of “Why, God?” for a colossal-sized tripod.

Anyone from the rougher parts of Paris for anyone dumb enough to spare us.

Some this-is-so-good-you-must've-made-it-in-culinary-school chocolate for a multi-tool player who'll walk a lot.

A tipsy poodle for some dipsy-doodle.

Any ridiculous status (executive! platinum! wined and dined! preferred!) for a kind word.

The straight and narrow for a great sombrero.

from
Poetry Northwest

after Gwendolyn Brooks's “We Real Cool,”

with thanks to Terrance Hayes

My friend said I wasn't fat but she was, and we

would go on that way, back and forth. She was my first real

friend, the kind who changes everything. Her mother was so cool,

didn't shave down there for the country club pool where we

sat beside her. I saw a gleam of her secret, silver hair and was left

dreaming of lime floating in a clear drink. I started saying hi at school

and people smiled back. Smile first, my friend said, and we

were a team. The cheerleaders who would always lurk

by the field, showing off their muscled legs—of late

I'd hardly noticed them. We talked about art, we

attended science camp in Gulfport. That's where her mother got struck

by a car the next year. She must have thrown the new baby straight

as a football to save her. Their family was on vacation, and we

found out at Sunday School, waiting for the choir to sing.

She was so good she comforted
me
. People saying, “It's just a sin,”

her mom like Snow White under glass, red lipstick, platinum hair we

knew was genetic. You'll still look young, I said. I think you're thin.

We'd skip lunch, drink Sego (“good for your ego”). Last year I drank gin

and called her ex. “She passed,” he drawled, like it was the weather. We

tried powdered donuts with the Sego, sweated to the Beatles and jazz.

Her whole life was beginning. We moved away from there one June,

Mississippi tight-mouthed as a lid on fig preserves. And we—

we white girls—knew nothing. The fire-bombed store, the owner who died

for paying his friends' poll taxes. Anorexia would be famous soon.

from
The Georgia Review

My mind rises up as the silos of interchanges,

streams, passages of myself in floating layers

so nothing can connect, and I dream emptiness

on ships sailing to new places for new names,

this ship my hands cupped in front of me,

a beggar's bowl, a scooped out moon, a mouth

opened to make noiseless screams, to arrange,

to begin, to break through to stop my arrogance,

believing what I touch, see, feel, hear, taste make

a case for being alive, so I can stop believing what

happens when a caterpillar dreams itself beautiful.

What cannot be is suddenly what I was made

to believe can never be, fibers growing in illegal

spaces between layers of who I am and I wake

from nightmares that come at night or in the day,

memories of being betrayed gathering like iron

threads to make a prison where fibers of a miracle

of light crack open in a seed inside love to let me

dream a body inside this body with structures

that breathe and know one another so I rise