Naked Romulus and Remus at Milesgården Couldn't nurse from 6' away And at the Vigeland, an obelisk Projects a naked that we stave Of honest and stark attitudes—Or maybe instead Projecting nude? As Graves surmised, we get confused And so we sit At physical length Listening to plans Tongue-in-cheek Of isolated workouts Job burnout And economic turnout A rawness and Honesty Like a Belvedere torso Bio Below: Wolfpack Contributor Bio: Maggs Vibo
Margaret Viboolsittiseri (aka Maggs Vibo) works in print, broadcast, special events, glitch media, and online. She is a contributor for Poem Atlas and has experimental art in the winnow
magazine, Coven Poetry, Ice Floe Press, The Babel Tower Notice Board, ang(st), The Wombwell Rainbow. Recent anthologies include Poem Atlas ‘aww-struck’, Steel Incisors, Fevers of the
Mind Press Presents the Poets of 2020 (January, 2021) and ‘My teeth don’t chew on shrapnel’: an anthology of poetry by military veterans (Oxford Brookes, 2020). She tweets @maggsvibo
and her website is poemythology.com.
Cicadas Said Kaddish
I tried to give The Universe a nudge,
packed a few boxes.
Just things we could do without:
tchotchkes, reference books.
I needed to prepare for something.
Now boxes with no destination
line the hall, reminds me of
late summer in Chillicothe,
packing up Suzanne’s life:
her cherrywood pipe, the glass eye
of a man she’d wanted,
a pistol, and love of books.
I herded together
stray tarot cards; a psychic’s closure.
Cicadas said Kaddish with mermaid sisters,
beautiful creatures from LA,
beached in a second-floor apartment
alongside cardboard shells.
All of us out of our element.
I padded the painted urn,
crumpled newspaper, back page sex ads
(to make her laugh).
An outer layer of t-shirts;
¼ of her ashes formed the
nucleus of my bag.
Still, I return seashells to The Pacific,
smooth stones from her pocket.
What comes next?
Her altar will be the last thing I pack.
Cedar Park, Seattle
How can you be nostalgic for a dirt hill
and cruel boys,
but they were the only boys I knew.
Twilight, hunting rats in an empty lot.
Before Mr. Coffey lost his house
to a Starbucks exec.
Red Cedars, hemlocks,
kept watch, with nodding heads.
Dark green, the color of
Only the boys were allowed to sled
down Sunrise Hill.
I didn’t want to, but
felt I should.
Sometimes people on horseback rode by;
enough to make me wonder
At the top of the hill,
The Tootsie Roll Lady gave
just one a day,
if you asked nicely.
Pops Jones let me roller skate
on his driveway. Said,
girls can go to college now.
I didn’t want to, but
wish I had.
The old apple trees still grow there,
but I can’t pick ‘em.
I had assumed their pale fruit
After a Wedding
The welders moved in unison,
leaving behind the pier.
Wordless and smudged
they approached me.
Searching stained pockets, on beds
of pink and black palms,
they revealed gold rings.
A journeyman knows to cherish.
photo by Karsten Winegeart (unsplash)
Maggs Vibo (she/her) experiments with glitch films and folklore imagery in the fringes of the art
world. In 2020, her cinepoems debuted with Army at the Arts at the Virtual Fringe Festival and
her visual art showed at the Poem Atlas exhibition ‘Escapisms.’ Her latest poetry is available in
the anthology Fevers of the Mind Press Presents the Poets of 2020 (January 2021). She has
forthcoming and published war poetry in Afterwords (Spring, 2021), ‘My teeth don’t chew on
shrapnel’: an anthology of poetry by military veterans (Oxford Brookes University, 2020), and
O-Dark-Thirty, 5.3 Anthology (Spring, 2017), 4.2 (Winter, 2016); and 4.3 (Spring, 2016). She
tweets @maggsvibo and her website is poemythology.com.