Category: Poets

Mark Fogarty

DIANA TAURASI KISSES SEIMONE AUGUSTUS
ON COURT DURING THE WNBA FINALS

When you’re your authentic self every single day, without shame — life sort of falls into place.
— Seimone Augustus

“She wanted to taste my deliciousness,” said Seimone
After the game, but there was more to it than that.
Taurasi’s team was going down, there’s nothing
In this world she hates more than to lose,
And this was the finals, for all the bright rings.
So instead of grabbing Seimone to foul, she kissed her.
On the cheek. Sweet, and not so sweet.
A kiss for the victor, Seimone wins this time.
But also a foul, maybe even a technical foul,
And a Judas kiss as well, marking Seimone
To go down the next time they met.

The following year, Diana made sure her team won.

I should dislike Diana Taurasi, but I can’t.
She went to UConn, and I went to Rutgers,
Enough said. But Diana is the fiercest competitor
On the entire planet, the one you pick first
When choosing teams. She’s the best
Female hooper to date. This year she’s sitting out,
Wooed away by Russian billionaries
Who pay her $1.5 million, a free apartment,
Rides to away games on the oligarch’s jet.
I never rooted for her team, but I kind of miss
The way she cuts my team up with her fiendish passes,
Her moves to the hole, her pullup and score.
I miss the bun of hair she pulls back so tightly
My head hurts. I want to taste her deliciousness again.

Seimone Augustus was engaged for a full five years.
No, she wasn’t dithering about it.
She couldn’t marry her wife until now.
I teared when I read her essay on marriage.
She loves her spouse like I loved my spouse,
Like you love your spouse. No different.
Sweet as the move to the hoop, the circle
All the energy flows through. I too
Want to kiss Seimone Augustus, chastely,
On her tender and triumphant cheek,
Now that the veil has been lifted,
Now that there is no gay marriage, just marriage.

Zorida Mohammed

Escaping To The Ravine Again

The humdrum meaningless shit I had to do
over and over and over again.
My poor little life was choking to death
under kids I did not make, and the yoke
that grown ups in poverty foist on their kids.
The drudge work would not be so unbearable
if the folks in charge did not dog and kick you
for not doing it the way, the only way
one of them would have done it.

Anyway, here I am at the end of my career,
and I’m in the ravine again,
chasing fish on the internet, not fish,
but any article that catches my fancy
while paperwork waits—
the endless pile of paperwork.

I have to duck out to keep my sanity,
to free my brain, drown it in the ravine,
so I can last the rest of the day.
I do it between scheduled clients.
I make a beeline for the internet ravine,
flowing with all sorts of small fry life,
snippets that I can trap and tap into immediately,
a little mystery, learning something new,
propping me up, drinking ravine water,
internet-water delaying me
from getting back to the endless noting
and documenting.

Consciousness/unconsciousness,
and all other projected psychic apparatus,
reside in the body, the whole body,
not only in that pile of grey, grey matter
housed in our heads.

It reminds me of Indians toting cow shit
to purify their dwellings.

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