Four Poems
Poetry by Julianna May
I Talked to God on a Tuesday
Not stiff-legged on gold-cushioned pews
red shag carpets listening to the good
book spewed and splayed
blood and flesh communing
with raised hands and closed eyes
but on the side of a mountain
sealed in a tent and between
kaleidoscoping lotuses
yellow and orange auras
dots vibrating with the cicadas
She spoke to me
in the after sitting on that mountain
the picasso painted sky blooming
before us butterflies chasing each other
around between us down the hill
I look at her and find peace
sprout painted wings
and wrap them around myself
Sunflower Volume 2
Hope hangs on my wall
in a sunflower
has she turned a corner?
will she look my way?
waiting on her
is like playing monopoly
with scrabble tiles
it is january now
five months
since I last saw her
red petals
turned toward me
she used to sing
every morning
just for me
through depressions, drought
she didn’t wither
or droop – steadfast
and tall till she reflected
a glass wall
and burned a goodbye.
now hope feels like an open wound
scorched petals fading
on the ground
The Conjuring
he walks up behind you
places his large hand on your shoulder
and you say you are happy
though i know your depression
runs through your veins with the coffee
needed daily. Your half-turned
smile like a sad crescent moon
peeking out from behind clouds
fog spilling over the land
his hands are always on you somewhere
laying claim to land he does not own
just like his ancestors years ago;
your knee, thigh, shoulders all places
to show you are his alone.
you told me everything is fine
now he’s a new man but
i see something catch
in your throat – words
never said balled up tight
tied together with torment
you swallowed long ago
finally trying to escape
but finding no way out.
I watch you cough
shake it off
force a full smile
just like his hyena face
behind you – i can see
the ball slide back down
your throat, lodge itself deep
in your chest begging one day
to be set free.
Family Tree
They romanticized how they met
young adult group Kimberly - brand new
to church and christ - appeared
volleyball is the name pastoral love
the game Douglas noticed her fall
and get back up he knew she could live
a hollowed life - sometimes touched
by a holy yellow light
most times forgot so nine months later
they married and he adopted
her young son like Joseph to Mary
before having four more
together
***
Doug Kim
had had
three four
siblings
all brothers
all the time
do they always grow
a p a r t
***
The world made sense The world didn’t give
on a court a wide road
sneakers cracking daisies discovered in an
against the crowd only daughter she
shots gone up needs to be tough through
and swallowed down and treads through
fleeting moments reborn alcohol and weed
eleven years later like her brothers like
his younger brother her father — the almost
his better – loved best the Father — the grandfather
tallest, baby son who felt her — baby’s
competition the others father who abandoned
did not want she raised her son
could not beat like she and her brothers
now the four strong independent
barely text or speak. waiting for the sun.
***
(my favorite of her stories)
Frances grew up with no indoor plumbing
the march outside dreaded
because of weather and all her friends
were getting toilets
maybe, if she lit the outhouse
she might, too
so she stomped
and drug the match hard
before throwing it down the hole.
She dropped out of school
tended house and younger siblings
then married and tended house
children grandchildren
we played Skipbo and Solitare
made pizza bagels clam chowder
her knotty fingers tapping constantly
rasping tables
fingers flicking a match
still waiting for the house
to burn down.
(beyond her
I know nothing)
***
Barbara had a pet rooster
it howled for her so she could
put her bones back together
she waited for the tracks
to bring her father back home
with a little of his pay left
not sprinkled along the way
like drips of whiskey from the train
one day the rooster chased
her brother down he slammed
a door on its neck
they ate rooster for dinner
and she spent years
trying to find her voice
becoming caretaker instead of cared for
she glues family together clutching shards
hewn from substances and abuse
a husband walking the same
tracks her father rode
she saves her money
smashes glass bottles
brought before her
she makes mosaics of roosters
to hang around her house a fortress
for prodigal sons she howls
***
They tell me I am descended
from Hungary some greats ago.
Julianina saw a better life here
they miswrote her name
in Ellis Island
a story and mistake
are all i have of her
BIO: Julianna May (she/her) is an ex-horse girl, ex-Christian, and ex-hetero. She loves teaching English and ranting about Shakespeare. She has previously been published in Crepe & Penn Magazine, Nightingale and Sparrow Magazine, Wingless Dreamer Anthology, and others. Instagram: juliannamaypoetry Twitter: JuliannaMay1216