“The Debate”
by Alison Luterman
I’m listening to my father and his brother,
both in their eighties, debate their childhood
from adjoining La-Z-Boy recliners.
“We had no toys,” my father insists.
“What are you talking about, no toys?”
My uncle practically leaps from his chair,
except he can’t, on account of his back and his legs
and his feet and his hips. “We had tons of toys!”
Then he lists them: the playing cards
(“Those don’t count,” my father says);
the train set (“Oh, yeah, I forgot about the train set”);
the sleds — “Did anyone else on our block have sleds?”
Uncle Barry asks. “Nineteen-forty, people are crawling
out of the Great Depression on hands and knees, tell me:
Did anyone on our block besides us have a sled?”
My father’s father had a good job delivering newspapers
and brought home sixty-five dollars a week,
enough for Chinese food every Friday
and cupcakes on birthdays.
“We really didn’t have birthday parties,”
my father contends, and my uncle lunges at this.
“What are you talking about?
What about that surprise party
when you turned thirteen?”
“That was the only time,” my father counters.
Don’t even try, Uncle Barry, I almost say,
then catch myself. I want
this unwinnable argument to continue —
forever, if possible. I want
the Brooklyn music of their voices
entwined in a duet with no resolution. I want the song —
half lament, half celebration —
to go on and on and on.
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“The Debate”
by Alison Luterman
I’m listening to my father and his brother,
both in their eighties, debate their childhood
from adjoining La-Z-Boy recliners.
“We had no toys,” my father insists.
“What are you talking about, no toys?”
My uncle practically leaps from his chair,
except he can’t, on account of his back and his legs
and his feet and his hips. “We had tons of toys!”
Then he lists them: the playing cards
(“Those don’t count,” my father says);
the train set (“Oh, yeah, I forgot about the train set”);
the sleds — “Did anyone else on our block have sleds?”
Uncle Barry asks. “Nineteen-forty, people are crawling
out of the Great Depression on hands and knees, tell me:
Did anyone on our block besides us have a sled?”
My father’s father had a good job delivering newspapers
and brought home sixty-five dollars a week,
enough for Chinese food every Friday
and cupcakes on birthdays.
“We really didn’t have birthday parties,”
my father contends, and my uncle lunges at this.
“What are you talking about?
What about that surprise party
when you turned thirteen?”
“That was the only time,” my father counters.
Don’t even try, Uncle Barry, I almost say,
then catch myself. I want
this unwinnable argument to continue —
forever, if possible. I want
the Brooklyn music of their voices
entwined in a duet with no resolution. I want the song —
half lament, half celebration —
to go on and on and on.
In a Grain of Sand
By Jesús Papoleto Meléndez
To see a world in a grain of sand …
—from “Auguries of Innocence” by William Blake
We are Starseeds
every one of us –
you & me,
& me and you
& him & her,
& them
& they
& those
Who know of this
are truly blessed …
True for all
living beings,
beings living –
not humans only,
but ants & trees
& the open breeze,
things that breathe
air or fire,
water, earth
all kinds of dust
& dirt,
particles
a part of all,
all a part
of
Everything
that is
in everything;
Thus, it Sings!!!
& its song
is Life,
& Life
is!!! …
a seed of Stars,
the dust of Suns
& Moons
rocks & dust
& outer smoke
in outer space
Floating
in a bath of timelessness,
counted, measured
numbered
by some species –
others caring not;
Science & Mathematics
trying to plot
Poetry in motion,
Motion
in a Helix’s curve,
And Life
on Earth
becomes visible
to You
through the naked I!
Quite Excellent
“The Debate”
by Alison Luterman
I’m listening to my father and his brother,
both in their eighties, debate their childhood
from adjoining La-Z-Boy recliners.
“We had no toys,” my father insists.
“What are you talking about, no toys?”
My uncle practically leaps from his chair,
except he can’t, on account of his back and his legs
and his feet and his hips. “We had tons of toys!”
Then he lists them: the playing cards
(“Those don’t count,” my father says);
the train set (“Oh, yeah, I forgot about the train set”);
the sleds — “Did anyone else on our block have sleds?”
Uncle Barry asks. “Nineteen-forty, people are crawling
out of the Great Depression on hands and knees, tell me:
Did anyone on our block besides us have a sled?”
My father’s father had a good job delivering newspapers
and brought home sixty-five dollars a week,
enough for Chinese food every Friday
and cupcakes on birthdays.
“We really didn’t have birthday parties,”
my father contends, and my uncle lunges at this.
“What are you talking about?
What about that surprise party
when you turned thirteen?”
“That was the only time,” my father counters.
Don’t even try, Uncle Barry, I almost say,
then catch myself. I want
this unwinnable argument to continue —
forever, if possible. I want
the Brooklyn music of their voices
entwined in a duet with no resolution. I want the song —
half lament, half celebration —
to go on and on and on.
