Submissions by Ahavati (Tams)

1.

Not everything feels safe and secure, least of all
the arms of the poem. It takes a great deal of trust
sitting in the passenger's seat of the verse. There is no time
to consult the Ouija Board or Tarot Deck; we'll miss the bus
and succumb to the mundane in a cold, New York minute.

The poet isn't licensed to drive anymore than the muse. If we
try we'll both get lost and constantly fight. Driving the poem
would be something like misreading a foreign road sign
that actually meant "STUPID TOURIST". We'll get it
half-right at best;...

All the great sadnesses, great temptations,
and great mistakes are almost always
the result of loneliness.”
-- José Saramago, Margaret Jull Costa

In the end we all become graves,
our differences united by the same
neglect of weeds and immense
necropolis whose swathed residents
observe from quiet encasements.

Beyond our mounds will spread
giant limbs of balboa, tapping
like trapped hangers behind closet
doors casting macabre shadows
across plastic flowers and dirt.

Visitors and memories are decimated ...