Author: Isabel Borgers

Katherine Cash

I wonder if Adam felt like this 
When Eve was gone from his sight. 

Like he was unbalanced- 
Like he had lost a limb- 
Like he had lost a rib. 

Your name is engraved 
In my every thought. 
Your face is in  
My most beloved of dreams.  

I wait for you- 
To come back for me. 

And I will wait here,  
Lopsided, 
Until you do. 

Isabel Borgers

One hundred years 
of pedestrians 
has formed a dip 
in the brick walkway 
I imagine all those shoes 
treading that same spot 
day after day 
and remember Hopkin’s line— 
generations 
have trod, have trod, have trod 

Isabel Borgers

What if
instead of grandma’s sweet tea
Summer fireflies
peach preserves
or blackberry jam
mason jars held
memories
each jar filled
with a different moment

to recall them
you just unscrew the lid
scoop out a morsel
and place it on your tongue
the taste taking you back to
years and years and years ago
or maybe just
to last month

some memories taste bitter
like when you fell
off the playground
and cried
some taste sweet
like that time your mom
made your favorite cake
or when all your friends came
over and you laughed so hard
you knew you would never forget

Isabel Borgers

Stopped at the traffic light
I idly observe
people hurrying across
the skyway
from the parking garage
to the hospital
wondering at this solitary glimpse
a fragment of their lives
the time it takes for the light to change

The silver ribs of the suspended
sidewalk hold
clear glass panels together
its carpeted floor
bears the weight of souls—
nurses and other staff leaving
friends or family coming
holding a paper wish
get well soon

The light turns green,
and I inch towards
the car in front of me
taking one last glance
at the skyway,
just in time to see a woman
in heels walking
to the hospital
holding flowers.

Anneke Zegers

The mourners come in weeping wailing waves 
And, streaming through the cemetery gate 
with ashen veils, the solemn demonstrate 
devotion for the corpses of mass graves. 
Tis the season for the body count 
to surge as young and old meet their demise. 
I cannot think a reason underlies 
the prevalence in our deadly amount 
making an escalation of this sort; 
yet I suppose there ought to be a cause 
for gaping Death to open wide his jaws 
and pay the men of youth and talent short. 
So many parting shades have flown this year; 
let no more die, the ones whom we revere. 

Anneke Zegers

Almost all things turn out fine, 
You’ll see.  

Trees’ leaves fall to the ground 
Like maidens stripping off their silken robes 
To step into the baths 
And dip their roots 
To test the soapy water. 
Trees shed their foliage 
And shiver in the winter wind 
Skeletons standing tall 
Fingers reaching motionless toward the sky.  
Birds’ nests wither and die 
Floating away in storms 
Or idle breezes 
And chipping away 
At the twigs.  
The bite of cold cracks 
And bark splits open 
Spilling frozen innards 
Of a dying plant. 
Unfeeling, unflinching 
It stands the snow piling down 
Dusting its arms 
Balding its scalp 
Breaking its resolute spine 
Which still does not give. 
The bone is hard and wet 
But not yet brittle enough  
To topple. 

And Decembers roll into Januaries 
And Februaries come after 
And a long winter it endures. 
Months of pressure and snow 
Of such a degree 
Would kill a man 
And turn us all 
To bone.  
And March ushers in the sun once more.  
The cold chill abates 
As the snow washes into rivers of tears. 
Such sympathy from its oppressor 
Breathes life back into its weary sinews. 
The great burdened being sighs 
And sprigs of green hair 
Bloom on every edifice.  
Tentatively, it reaches out its roots once more 
And finding the boundaries of weary winter months 
At last broken 
Leaps into new growth 
With a heart of  
Unabashed hope.  

And such a tree as this 
Always survives the starving season 
And keeps standing 
Under aches and pains 
And hard rains.  
Almost all things turn out fine 
You see.  

Anneke Zegers

cotton candy clouds litter my young dreams 
with stars and suns 
dancing just above my head 

dolls’ blank and smiling faces 
worn pale 
gaze off the shelf 
wearing dust like a blanket 

tea leaves spin from my hair 
growing long and wild 
flower petals 

constellations of blood 
flowing  
mourn a vanished child 

Anneke Zegers

The children are not weeping for our souls; 
they are shaking innard quaking 
tears streaming hot 
hearts beating rapid fire pitter-patter 
like the shotguns in our mouths 
scared stiff and senseless in fear of our foulness 
fear for our fists. 

The children do not cry out in joy at the sight of us coming home; 
they are crying parched screams we ignore 
what they preach 
to restore in them a confidence we killed. 
They cry in desperate will  
in the mere chance lightning will strike twice 
in the hope we not kill them too. 

The children do not smile because they like us or are like us; 
we perpetuate facts and acts 
beyond legitimate knowledge of nature 
beyond seasons of knives and needles 
for these whose winters have yet to end 
smile warm smiles to grin and bear  
because they know what we will do 
what we will turn into if they don’t. 

The children refuse to admit us to their games not because 
they think us too high and mighty; 
angelic alabaster feathers on chintz pages  
we are the serpentine monsters and murderers 
destroy all we touch and would them too 
without rhyme or reason or correlating consequences 
beyond sands and symphonies 
because we rule the word 
we rule the world wickedly.