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| TunaS |
The Presence of Cats
All is here, nothing is lost,
my cats’ voices of silk and light
seem to say.
My 2000 moon and beyond the moon,
my 2010 and 2020’s buried moments
cats unearth, as if to say,
Our nails on wood retrieve a lover’s voice and a stranger’s.
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| Peter Mladinic |
Peter Mladinic's most recent book of poems, Maiden Rock, is available from Uncollected Press. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico, United States.
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| Matheus Bertelli |
Dandelions
They look like lions’ tails
standing up,
long-stemmed, silky saucer crowns
on the lawn where I am.
Maybe in a field across the ocean,
some girl picks one
and blows the silky threads
into the air. A girl in pigtails and a dress with ruffles.
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| Peter Mladinic |
Peter Mladinic's most recent book of poems, Maiden Rock, is available from Uncollected Press. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico, United States.
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| Michael Morse |
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| Peter Mladinic |
Peter Mladinic's most recent book of poems, Maiden Rock, is available from Uncollected Press. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico, United States.
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| Timur Webber |
Man Outside a Store
I slip him 3 folded ones, take the thanks
in his glazed eyes home,
to sit at a table. He might offer a name,
steal the flat screen, the china.
I might ask if the sound of rain on a roof
brings to mind a mother’s face.
He has hands to wash cars and dishes.
Is my 3 abetting a man kicked by
the system? We trade lives. He pulls away
in my Jeep Wrangler. In an alley
behind, housed the Tiger Rose pint I uncap stays in its paper sack as I drink it down.
This poem is from Peter's book Files of Information.
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| Peter Mladinic |
Peter Mladinic's most recent book of poems, Maiden Rock, is available from Uncollected Press. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico, United States.
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| Unsplash |
Mail Carrier
“Church family,” he said,
“day after day Al delivered mail
to your door: bills, flyers, letters
he took from his brown leather bag,
shiny and worn with use,
with a black sheen like a black cloud
on top from where his hands
had touched it, a light brown leather
saddle-soaped so it wouldn’t crack.
With a strap slung over his shoulder,
today he walks into God’s arms,
part of the spiritual body, good news.
He’s the love letter in God’s hands.
That leather bag’s gleam,
were we to look at it, would blind us.”
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| Peter Mladinic |
Peter Mladinic's most recent book of poems, Maiden Rock, is available from Uncollected Press. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico, United States.
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| Helena Lopes |
An old dog lay in a ditch,
gray muzzle, big eyes, a microchip.
When she contacted the owner,
they didn’t want the dog,
which leads me to think that person
had abandoned it. Or maybe
the dog had wandered off.
It’s odd to chip the dog,
then not want it back. She
herself can’t keep it. If I prayed
I’d pray that dog finds a home
where it won’t be neglected.
Or this: if I prayed I’d pray the one
who abandoned the dog, in turn,
gets dumped, left in a ditch
of their own making.
I don’t know their circumstances,
it’s easy to judge. Maybe
things happened where they
couldn’t care for the dog,
or looked for but couldn’t find
a no-kill shelter. Years ago
my mother’s Duke
got lost in a city. The pound
called and her father said,
“That dog is old. Put it to sleep.”
Put you to sleep, you evil bastard.
On the Death of a Year-Old Cat
at What Was Once a No-Kill Shelter
There’s no cage for your water and food,
no corner for you to sleep and wake in.
No kind touch for you, only the table,
the needle’s poison, the end of today,
the land of nonbeing, the fire, the ashes.
Precious to Me
More than anyone or anything,
my little dog and I am
whatever I am to you,
my cocker-poodle
of blonde wavelets, long
ears, short legs; more
mystery in your body
than in courtyard shadows
of childhood. I go to your eyes
for the exotic. Darkly
I walked out a door and
you, who’d been living near
a dumpster, waddled to me,
shaggy, disheveled,
in a state of grace.
The Dog Ate My Homework
An animal rights advocate I have a list
called my favorite rescues.
I won’t bore you going down the list of
names you could easily look up.
Each time I come to it, in my trusty notepad
app, I keep seeing excuses, my favorite
excuses, my mind subbing the one noun
for the other, so now I’m thinking is there
a similarity? Excuse and rescue sound
and look a bit similar. Now I’m thinking
of Jimmy Semlar. Is he still alive? Who lived
down the street from the first police officer
I ever knew, who wore a uniform with
buttons on both sides of his chest. I don’t
see too many like that anymore, except in
noir films. Come to think of it, there aren’t
many dogs in noir films, more cats than
dogs. If Jimmy Semlar is alive, does he live
with a cat? Would he hear and see the
sameness in rescue and excuse? Has he
read David Ignatow’s “Rescue the Dead”?
I recall Jimmy’s nose in the book about Dick
and Jane and Spot, and the brass buttons
on the chest of my friend Billy’s father. I
wear excuses, like the herringbone vest I
buttoned and unbuttoned the Sunday
Ignatow read at the Walker and fate made
me his audience, one of the crowd, hearing
“You who are free…”
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| Peter Mladinic |
Peter Mladinic's most recent book of poems, Maiden Rock, is available from Uncollected Press. An animal rights advocate, he lives in Hobbs, New Mexico, United States.
cottonbro studio Saratoga Late summer green hills above the Hudson our separate cars parked on the warm black pavement this ...
