In an ongoing series, the editors, former contributors, and readers of Eclectica have been invited to write a poem containing four pre-chosen words. The words for this issue are well, dissolve, present, and bed.
If you would like to participate in the next special poetry assignment, the new words are arm, patch, center, strike.
(These are excerpts—click on the title to view the whole poem)
I Don't Remember
I don't remember this blinding whiteness
the well familiar turned otherworldly
I will plant them as closely
as we were once.
I hold your hand and wonder what this room
will be like without you present.
Down the dark
well of my stomach, it would
dissolve, releasing prayer
EMT: Ambulance Bed in Winter (With Each Line's Final Word from Robert
Louis Stevenson's "Bed in Summer")
The fastest way
to die is smoking, especially if the mattress catches fire
Taking Care of Dad, After Mom
This wasn't the plan,
he will tell you, over and over
there's always a goodbye
Faraway, but not foreign
I was all too familiar with sporadic leaking.
track a thirsty squall,
heat settles upon well-oiled skin.
Barbara De Franceschi
once we were a house on fire on salt spring island
watching a fire isn't a team sport, even though we cluster like the Pleiades
most of us mourn, enough tears to fill a well, for the fried family dog
I Don't Look Good in Orange, Mother
My sister prays to gods that I don't know
But I don't know any, so
Petra Lay Awake All Night
path before her
threshold behind her
3 a.m. in the Orthodontist's Diner
I dream in technicolor, chubby shapes unfolding vividly
I see lupine succulents atop the window sill
Meghana Lily Shenoy
The Present Dissolves on the Bed at the Bottom of a Well
In the cotton candy of dreams
where the present lives
like a flower surrounded by bees
José Enrique Medina
The harder I clutch
at the chimera,
the faster it fades