Fortissimo
To play fortissimo
hold something back.
It is what the father does not say
that turns the son.
The fact that the summit cannot be seen
that drives the climber on.
Consider the graceless ones:
the painter who adds one more brush stroke.
the poet of least resistance
who writes past the end of his poem.
In Memoriam
Papilio cresphontes
You appeared on
my front porch, not
a breath of flutter
in your beautiful wings:
A black sky lined
with stars, tipped in
blue orange yellow
stripes with black
between, like medals
awarded for great
bravery. When,
thinking you were
gone, I bent to
see you better and
your thin black feet
slid you away
so slowly I could
hardly tell they
moved, I knew
to leave you be.
In the morning you were
clinging to the screen,
so still I could have
drawn you square by
tiny square, and all day
every time I went in
or out, I whispered
the door into position
oblivious to the fact
that whether you
lived or died had
nothing to do with me.
The third morning,
I thought you flown
until I looked off
the edge of the porch
and saw your parted
wings, one moving,
the others still, and
where they had joined—
a commotion of ants
as if your body had
been replaced by a
corsage of dark roses.
Then, slowly, solemnly,
your wings began
processing towards
a scatter of sand and
when I went out again
the path and porch
were bare and below
the earth the ants were
less hungry. Someday
I’ll be a gift like that.
North Carolina, April 2023
Phausis reticula
Blue lights trail between
darkened trees, glow
on the leafy floor.
A long time ago soldiers
died here. They’re back
tonight, still searching
for their women, insects
all, but not. For what
do years and bodies
signify, compared to love?
Nothing, say the males
emitting their shines.
Nothing, say the females
too, who cannot fly but
generation on generation,
crawl and climb. Shun
these woods when the
ghosts are out. But
the edge, that place
of deepest learning,
is still allowed, so
choose a position, and
if you do not move for
long enough, you’re
bound to see how the
men are so faithful
they don’t even blink
and their larval women
who can be crushed by
any careless foot or paw
crawl glowing anyhow
over the leaves, some
of which are already
almost earth, and curl
onto bark until they
are high enough.
I am so close, they
think.
The Queens of Psythrus
Bomba Psychrus
visit flowers frequented by
a foreign colony long enough
to assume its odor, so that
when they penetrate it, no
alarm will be raised. Once
inside, they’ll stab its queen
and destroy her eggs, then
crown themselves. After
that, the colony’s workers
will feed both them and the
eggs the new queen has laid,
peacefully if they’re fooled,
but if not, by violence. One
could argue that because
these queens birth no workers
of their own, their predations
are necessary. On the other
hand, since as soon as they
begin to rule, they take
everything from their subjects
and contribute nothing in return
but offspring like themselves,
perhaps they’re not. Think
cruelty. Think greed. Think
the inevitable rise of empires.
Think their inevitable fall.
The Display
Sun gilds the interstices
between a vulture’s
opened feathers as his flock
curves around him.
But not until the glow
rises and the others
slowly spread their own—
do I realize
that these are all saints.
The Inquilines
—one individual exploiting the living space of another
Slithery tracks where tortoise burrows curve away.
Foreign eggs left in a layer’s nest.
Dusk deer, feeding on a flowerbed.
Squeaks and skitterings in the attic.
A live cockroach under your sheet.
A dead worm in Robert Kennedy’s brain.
For each of the above pairs, decide
which is the exploiter? Keep in mind
that the answer may not be as
simple as you thought.
Fireflies, East of Asheville
Phausis reticula
Blue lights streak between
darkened trees, glow
on the leafy floor.
A long time ago soldiers
died here. They’re back
tonight, searching for
their women, insects
all, but not. For what
can years and bodies
signify, compared to love?
Nothing, say the males
emitting their shines.
Nothing, say the females
who cannot fly but
generation on generation,
crawl and climb. If you
stand on the edge of
these woods at dusk,
when the ghosts are out,
you’re bound to see how
the men are so faithful
they don’t even blink,
as their larval women,
who can be crushed
by any careless foot or paw,
creep glowing over the
leaves, some of which
are almost earth, then
curl onto bark, inch up,
and wait. And sometimes,
in a form they could
not have imagined
when they pinned up
their hair and wore skirts
so long they pooled at
their feet, they are found.
Lola Haskins has published 14 books of poetry and three of nonfiction. Her work has appeared widely in magazines and been broadcast on BBC and NPR. Her latest collection Homelight (Charlotte Lit Press 2023), was named Poetry Book of the Year by Southern Literary Review and was a Hoffer Grand Prize finalist. The one before that, Asylum (University of Pittsburgh, 2019), was featured in the NYT Magazine and will shortly be featured in The John Clare Journal. Past honors include the Iowa Poetry Prize, two NEAs, two Florida Book Awards, narrative poetry prizes from Southern Poetry Review and New England Poetry Review, a Florida’s Eden prize for environmental writing, and the Emily Dickinson prize from Poetry Society of America.