In the sun
When I was reading these poems on their beloved, I felt the warmth of light gently flowing around my body,
to the very end of every blood vessel, to the marrow. Issue 1, spring, 2021
Sun Worshipper
Our turtle likes the sun.
She likes to bask in the light and heat,
as any turtle would.
If she is on the floor,
she will find the strip of sunlight
coming through a window
and recline there with hind legs extended
to tune her cold-blooded body to the radiance.
And if she’s in her water-filled tank
and sees the sun is out,
she will climb a corner, where the glass sides meet,
and stretch her head toward the window.
Her behavior must be natural;
she must have no choice.
She is like a phototropic plant,
always bending toward the light.
But she doesn’t need to bend;
she can walk or paddle to the sun’s rays.
Slower Than Ever
Our turtle has slowed down
over the years she’s been our pet.
(She’s been the pet mainly of my wife and daughter—
I have nothing against her myself,
but I can’t say we have a human/reptile bond.)
Not that she was ever that fast—
she is a turtle, after all—
But she used to be able to climb out of her tank,
and, once out, run across the floor
as fast as her short legs could carry her.
She doesn’t do those things anymore,
though she can still splash for food
and bask in the sliver of sunlight
that comes through the glass
of a window and into her tank.
Turtle’s Neck
When I make a drawing of our pet turtle,
our daughter asks why the turtle’s neck is so short.
“Her head is retracted,” I explain.
“You forgot to draw the turtle’s neck,” she says.
And I realize I forgot to sketch the neckline
that looks like the collar on a turtleneck sweater.
That roll of cloth makes us look like a turtle
when we are wearing a fashionable top
and want to warm our neck with wool.
But our turtle needs no sweater
to sport a real turtle’s neck.
All she has to do is pull in her head.
Thad Rutkowski
Thaddeus Rutkowski is the author of seven books, most recently Tricks of Light, a poetry collection. He teaches at Medgar Evers College and received a fiction writing fellowship from the New York Foundation for the Arts.
River Love
We took the new lab to the river Sunday.
Not a pup—she was three on Friday—still she’s filled with that delight
the young have when everything is new.
She ranged the bosque in huge loops, swinging back from time to time to check on us,
then out again, engrossed with scents and sounds.
She flushed a pheasant, startled ducks at river’s edge.
Then, gingerly, she inched her way down the bank to drink
and in seconds she was in.
Her first time swimming, she was out again,
then in, swimming strongly,
then pulling herself up the bank and onto land
only to dive in yet again,
interrupting this routine just now and then
to shake, to shower us with water,
grinning broadly as dogs do at their own jokes.
What do I love, I wondered,
is there anything, anything at all,
that I adore so thoroughly, with such abandon,
as that dog loves the river?
Nick
We buried the red dog
under the rose bush
by the ditch
in the pit he’d scratched out
for himself
when the summer smoldered.
He was an old dog,
muzzle white and eyes cloudy.
We weren’t sure how much he saw.
Still, he grinned when you came near
and his tail slapped a welcome
if you’d sit with him awhile.
No longer able to stand,
even his bark silenced,
he seemed embarrassed by his infirmities
and when he passed on,
we put him in the ground
with the stuffed bear he used
to carry in his mouth,
shaking it and growling
as if he’d caught some prey
and dared us take it.
A good dog’s worth a lot
and he was fine.
In September, we buried him
in the cool dirt under the rose.
In May, the new pup
had hollowed herself another hole nearby
and the rose bloomed into
the new spring.
Mary Dudley
Mary Dudley has lived, worked, and written poetry in New Mexico for more than 50 yrs. Her work has been published in poets speak and in Fixed and Free anthologies, as well as in other collections including Value; Missing Persons; 22 Poems & a Prayer for El Paso; and Civilization in Crisis: an anthology of poetic response.
Recently, early in the beginning of the pandemic, she published her third chapbook-- a small collection of quiet poems, Be Still.
Gods and Monsters
Frodo, who knows words,
cowers under the table at my feet.
I ask, “Is it a hot-air balloon?”
“Aoow,” affirmative.
Scary things—them balloons—
monsters from on high.
So, he runs to me,
his current god.
Deborah Coy
Deborah Coy, an award winning editor of Beatlick Press, resides in Albuquerque, NM. She writes poetry and children’s books and dabbles in art. Her co-conspirators in life, dogs Gomer, and Maggie and husband Jon go everywhere together. Frodo sadly is no longer alive.
Best Dog
Isn’t it funny that every dog you’ve ever had
is your best dog,
that first one, a German Shepherd mix, who watched after the boys
during those years you were in school or otherwise distracted
and who was quiet, steady and dependable;
or when it was just the two of you
that big furry black dog with the pointy ears
who seemed he should be sitting in the green leather armchair
puffing on a calabash pipe, wearing a smoking jacket
and reading the Times,
and who protected your home against all men, even friends;
or how you remember the way that kind little white dog
seemed to like you but kept her distance,
who often made an entrance through the doorway
looking so pleased to be here, to be her,
and who sat like a sentry with your husband when he was ill;
or how you love this new one, the smallest of all
with sad eyes and a little monkey face
whose black curled tail wags and who can
jump off the ground with all four paws at once
and make you laugh, who treats you like her savior
and who really may be the best dog ever.
Marilyn O’Leary 1.23.21
Marilyn C. O’Leary is a retired water attorney and teacher who lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She has published four chapbooks, a memoir titled In Sickness and In Health, about living with a spouse with chronic illness, No One To Wake, a journey in poetry written after her husband’s passing, and How To Be A Widow, a tongue-in-cheek book about the changes to her life after her husband died. Her books all have the common theme of how to have a full and satisfying life even after dealing with significant loss. She has written and published two books with her poetry group, Quartet and Quintet. Marilyn now works as a professional life coach.
My Beloved Returns in a Form Most Fantastic
Cat of great glory, prince of snow,
descendant of alley cats, clad in ermine coat,
softly-furred paws hiding—scimitars.
He voiced unmistakable demands.
In a Gene Roddenberry moment, an ominous warning—
our feet had dropped their cloaking devices, revealing
aliens that threatened to destroy the world—
dinner-plate eyes—malevolent intent.
Finger laid along soft fur of throat felt pulse of rumbling purr.
Scratch beneath arched jaw—whiskers curved parentheses around his nose.
Rough scrub on scalp—eyes to slits, paws kneading—scimitars unsheathed.
Grasp of teeth—maybe gentle, maybe not. Glimpse of saber-toothed cat.
There has been a snow storm in the corner of my eye,
the center of my heart since he left me behind.
Ten years later, using an unspent life,
he props a tuna can in the door between worlds,
casually glides through in a new skin,
not saber-toothed, but bobcat—
He drapes casually across patio wall, twitches
stubby, striped tail, screws ears
back and forth, flashing
their black-and-white pattern.
He flows from the wall to sip at our pond,
crouches between dappled shoulders on same paws, only larger,
glances back as if to say, See? I’m not just fine,
I’m FANTASTIC! . . . as if I didn’t remember.
Then, he is gone over the wall—
into that ninth life.
Janet Ruth
This poem was written in memory of her beloved cat Wa Iyapa. Janet is a NM ornithologist. Her writing focuses on connections to the natural world. Janet has recent poems in Tiny Seed Literary Journal, The Ocotillo Review, Sin Fronteras, Spiral Orb, Ekphrastic Review, and anthologies including 22 Poems & a Prayer for El Paso (Dos Gatos Press, 2020). Her first book, Feathered Dreams: celebrating birds in poems, stories & images (Mercury HeartLink, 2018) was a Finalist for the 2018 NM/AZ Book Awards. https://redstartsandravens.com/janets-poetry/
