Philodendron

I stand above the terra-cotta pot
to uproot you, your crisp greenness now
yellowed, furled, choked by your root ball.

At times abandoned, punished, starved,
not maliciously, though it would seem
otherwise if I were you and you were
sentient. The potting soil you’re stuck in

is devoid of nutrients, and you too
are depleted. Before you disappear
like Costa Rica’s fabled Golden toad

last seen in 1988, I take cuttings,
stick them in peanut butter
jars filled with water, add more
when needed or when noticed.

The jars darken from the tangle within,
sediment seeps to the bottom, weak
cuttings die off, turn into a mush

of what-was-ness. The hardy ones, leaves green
and firm, roots extended; the water reeks
of a cloud forest where the air was wet, thick,
where trees whose leaves I saw only from the bottom

housed red-flowered bromeliads acting
like pools where frogs lay their eggs; roothold
in the air, made their own topsoil over

the years from moisture, leaves and bird shit; the smell
of it all rushed like a howl of monkeys
through my nostrils, decay and the perfume
of aerial flowers reminds me of bars

where so much urine has been passed it lives
in the memory of grout as breath.
I become re-rooted repotting you.

Strictly Speaking

I’d scrawl messages                             It’s not as if I lost a voice
throat perforated                                 I hear my mother’s voice asking, How
trach tube inserted                              do you lose a voice?
it needed cleaning                                My sister says, A voice
each time like drowning                      can’t be misplaced

a voice once silenced                           My dead it seems have found some voice
often misconstrued                              I have a voice
as if drawing glyphs                             And yet I try to find my voice
would some voice find me                   It is not dysphonia, though
later—some time                                  I’ve had that too
past radiation—                                   I can’t explain
a hushed voice aflame                         if that’s the voice I’m searching for

Davey

At 13, spying his pubic hair where I had none
that time we changed at the St. George pool;
his cock the biggest I’d ever seen.
He said not to care, either he was early,
or I was late. I don’t recall how we had
fun, but we always had it. Where did I sleep,
exactly? Alone? Sharing a bed? A room?

When we arrived now eludes me. A truck farm
stuck somewhere in New Jersey. About
refineries reeking, swamp gas exiting
landfills, the dark, maybe the foreign country
of truck stops, the weather, or the lack of
streetlights, driven by day or night, or how
many times we stopped to pee I couldn’t swear.

That first day’s breakfast—not my Mom’s table,
she’d say He eats like he was raised
in a stable—bacon, ham, eggs, toast, muffins,
milk in a pitcher, waffles, jam, butter,
jars of preserves from the cellar; leftovers
reheated—thanks to Mom’s edict: Try
everything at least once—things this city
boy never ate before—think chow-chow,
3-bean salad, bread & butter pickles.

I cannot remember the truck or fields.
The house, barely. I might recall white chickens
if asked. It depends. Was it late summer, early
fall or, harvest done, farmers gone fishing?

Where were his grandparents who owned the place?
One remarried late in life, out of the faith,
someone the family adored. Had they known
me would they adore me too? I coveted
his parents: socialists. Mine: unswerving
hypocrites. However many times
we went there are now distilled into one.

In the garden his parents’ hands guiding
me to forage my first peas off the vine,
tomatoes, zucchini, squat yellow squash
like starfish with the arms removed,
eggplants, and corn, corn, corn.

In the kitchen—(me too young to) notice
curtains, sheer, scalloped, on windows above
the sink; walls time-tarnished, the table-
cloth oiled and cracked; whether dishes were scratched
or shiny; if salt and pepper shakers matched—
feel its atmosphere expanding
like an extension table: His parents’
voices. Our own unearthing. The clatter of plates.

About the author:

Jay Brecker works and writes in southern California. His poems are forthcoming or have appeared in Rattle Poets Respond, Permafrost, Lily Poetry Review, Ocean State Review, The Inflectionist Review, South 85 Journal, I-70 Review, RHINO Poetry, and elsewhere. His manuscript, A Ceiling is a Wall Seeking, was a semi-finalist for the 2020 Wheeler Prize for Poetry.

In the artist’s words:

Christy Mandeville: I have been capturing sunrise and sunset photos throughout Florida for the past 13 years. Recently I’ve learned how to take these photos a step further by transforming them in to abstract works of art, thanks to Adobe Photoshop. “Love Letter” was captured in Indian Shores, Florida.