Issue One - Carol Graser
To a Piece of Paper
Here is the white lawn my dandelion words take root in
Here is the gruesome hand rising out of graves, gripping
my wrist (where the horrible truths are wrested and shaken
wet from their hour of creation). Here is the rocking boat
Here is the ticking face that blinks unconcerned
Here is the tower I climb fishing for lightning
that ecstatic jolt, when the inky insubstance
breathes life
Albany on the Anniversary of the US War Against Iraq
Morning was a fresh born colt
nose held to the informing wind
brown velvet coat a soft reflection
light of all past moments of newness
By afternoon horses hold
the inhuman police, flesh
ensconced in rigid black, power
of equine muscle, the height and weight
diameter of hoof. They menace
the puny crowd, placards of peace
If you want to play blue soccer at the edge
of this road that runs in front of the FBI building
If the police tell you to stop and you imagine arrest
imagine the swooshing ball behind bars
If you laugh beneath your knitted hat and kick the ball again
they surround you, three on foot, hands behind your
back, body bent forward, sweat pants flapping loose
against your legs, the battered ball rolls into a neutral street
If the small crowd pushes in to protect their son, voices
and arms startled, weak but for their eyes, the horse
immediate appears, a stomping barrier, the fourth
police fortressing you against the press of friends
Behind the rally, while you sit
with angry handcuffs in their back seat
two other sons wrestle the wet snow
Ceaseless bright play
they meander the field, galloping
through their own spring
After you're driven to the police station
the lawyer following with bail
a young woman joins the demonstration
Her thin shoes disdaining mud and snow
she walks up the edge of the road
past the row of mounted police