June

Mary Shaner, 26, was born in San Diego, California but was raised in El Paso, Texas. She is currently an undergraduate senior at UTEP, pursuing a B.A. in English and American Literature with a minor in creative writing. Shaner can often be found in the University Writing Center, where she spends her time drinking coffee and working as a writing consultant.

Honor

My mother’s hands were ocean tides,
Ripples of wrinkles and stains of paint.
Her fingers were graced with pastel dust,
India ink, and acrylic waves.
Nature’s child, she could create her own
Multicolored skin.
Her palms, like the sea, were strong
And infinite.
(They called it “Bread and Butter work”
When she painted to support herself in the ’70s)

My mother’s hands cascaded
Over yards and knots of shimmering fabrics,
Folding, stitching, and setting flags to sail
Through depths of dusty, golden light,
Beyond the lagoons of gunmetal chairs.
As a child, I believed that space was sacred
Because she swayed within
The undulating rhythm of the universe.

My mother’s hands
Spanned across countries.
She shaded lips and eyes, laundered sheets,
And taught me how to draw in straight lines.
Her palms, smooth as water, were strong
and infinite.

I remember her hands were charted one day
By the dispassionate blue ink of hospital markers.
Her prognosis would not change.
Each wrinkle was a wave that clapped
Shoulders and arms, fingers and backs,
Ensuring each of us and the hospital staff
Felt loved by one
Who contained countless oceans.
When I was fifteen, her waters grew
Like the deepening tides
Of the eternal.
My mother’s hands were like the sea,
Strong and infinite

For You

I gather petals of sound and leaves of speech,
Pruning stanzas and tones from fields of prose
But every letter blossoms on the tip of your lips;
Your air awakes orchids, sowing florets in rows.

Our Blue Couch

The glassy air is tepid and quiet.
Sitting beside you,
I feel full.
The summer waxes in daisies
While frogs chirp in the room beyond.
Do you remember when we were children,
Eating ice-cold fruit under a wakeful moon?
Do you still believe in God?
I wonder
But cannot bring myself to ask.
Buried inside the undulating silence,
Rippling revelations crash into my skin.
After a lifetime comprised of
A portmanteau silence,
I have realized I
Know nothing about the nature of love.

L.F.

I can’t remember your voice. We were fleeting
Zephyrs, born in the time of monarchs, raised to rail
Against the chaos of an age. You were a respite
From glass-blown years, a rocketed sky beyond
Dusty, silver windowsills. I remember we ran down
Through dust and silted sand, away from the
Faded refrain of our families.
I knew all of your names. You and I sang
Along the interstate, guzzling pools of stars
And oceans of time. You wore
White lace
And drove me half-mad with thirst. You were born
First. I can’t remember your voice.

Gloss

Tell me the secrets
Hidden inside your mouth.
What can you see
With your pale, unfinished eyes?
Are you eternally searching inside
The ordinate universe, an infinite mind
Like an ancient Egyptian sphinx?
Did you look on the creator with love
While he breathed but could not fathom
The weight of your soul, the
Burden of nameless canvas and clay?
When you were born, did you weep?
Do you dream or wonder? Can you fathom one day
Your age will outlast centuries?