approach
His eyes close, when
he asks,
Not
clearly . . . not,
past his hands.
It’s a small
space!
his first
words.
Then his last, here.
—Stan Burriss

Dangerous Languages
I wonder if languages that perished
became too dangerous, cut too close:
My own
My darling
The division of the night
The way the moon floats on the blue water of the sky
Bread
It was too much for us
We couldn’t speak any more
Only weep and embrace
We were undone
Starved
Frozen
with sorrow in our mouths
Love
in our sharp dark eyes.
—Elizabeth Romero

01-09-07
My name is Michael.
I’m currently residing at the Thunder Bird treatment center.
On the 13th of this month, January ’07, I hope to have 8 months clean & sober.
Before the T-Bird I was a troll living or existing under the I-5 Cherry Street Bridge.
I flew my sign around there and used drugs every day. Mostly crack and booze.
I don’t know how long I can stay sober. I call myself the Relapse King. But today,
by the grace of God, I’m not using. I don’t give my word on anything because I’m the Promise Breaker.
—Michael J. Herrera

Other People’s Clothes
All of my life I have been wearing them,
the hand-me-downs, the pants too long,
arms of sweaters stretched longer than mine,
sleeves of shirts I rolled up like newspapers,
those shoulders that would never stay in place,
always remembering: we are here to fit in.
And the very shoes that narrowed on my feet,
I gave away or traded up for other people’s soles.
I have thought somewhere there must be men
whose socks don’t shrink, whose buttons stay put,
whose shirts never wear out at the elbows.
I paid for what other people gave away.
All of my life I wanted to stand tall,
but as I grew up my clothes kept wearing out, when
in my child’s heart, I only wanted the comfort of corduroy,
a face that didn’t need ironing, a crease that would stay put—
these labels I hoped wouldn’t rub off.
—Michael Magee