Can’t Complain
BY MARTHA SILANO
I mean, at least it’s not 106 degrees. At least I’m not hearing
a loud popping sound in my knee, followed by swelling.
I had no idea those pops are referred to
as pathological noise. What a great name for a band.
But seriously, I’m good. Hoping for the same
with you—no aphids in your begonias,
no sore senses or Columns
of Creation pain. I hope your cupboards shine like Orion.
That humor hangs in your closet with the raincoats,
that you haven’t been ejected
from the room of ineffable calm, that your days are more freesia,
less filth. I heard on the radio yesterday we need to cut
emissions by 45%, like, now, but it turns out
most countries are having trouble cutting them by 3%. Who-ee,
it sounds like 2030’s gonna be soggy. We’ll all be sporting
flame-retardant flight dresses for the wildfires I doubt
will be canceled. What shoes pair well with my drenched-pot-roast
shift? I was thinking a strappy mountain-high sole
with an electrically spinning heel.
Also, a vibrating instep. At the not-prom, we’ll swap our favorite
pre-mass-extinction tales, awake until the stars extinguish
like wicks. But enough about me: what will you be
for Halloween? I was thinking I’d be a belly-dancing zombie queen,
stand at the door with a bowl of Skittles, evoking terror
in the beatifically brave come-knockers. Here,
let me pin that corsage. I always loved
orchids—too bad yours got scorched on its little foray to a planet
some idiots think we can live on. O, space! O, to fall
into the arms of a gap of blue. Not that I’m blue,
but really, I hope you’re well, that your wheeee hasn’t cracked,
that your bones aren’t talking. I hope every other minute
is a sparkler that never burns out.
There are Thousands of Pleasures
BY MARTHA SILANO
thousands of ways to not be dissatisfied, to not embrace the terms
of anxiety. One of them is to consider the length
of a giraffe’s tongue: twenty-one inches.
Another is to go in pursuit of blackberries only a person in a boat
can reach. It’s important to be responsive to tails and ears,
to limbs that allow you, domestic cats, and gazelles
to lope toward Ladybug Espresso or a rat. Away
from a charging hippo. It’s better to light
a sparkler than to whine, right?
It is better to thank your body for its heels, its ability to heal.
That although they are dreadlocked and devoted,
you are not a Bergamasco sheepdog. To avoid
a sort of manic obsession with less-than, stare at the pinking clouds
longer than seems appropriate. Way longer. To gloss your brain,
revel in the long ago-ness of your past, focus mostly
on the gigantic-peach present that really does take up most of the fridge.
When you spot a plate of envy, take a sniff, decide to pass.
Your eyes are infinite. So are the number of beetles
in the tropics. Choose your path like you’re choosing a stallion,
pick carefully through the leaves of spinach, careful
not to harm the baby slugs.
You are that baby slug. You are that minute that sometimes feels like an hour
and sometimes feels like a nanosecond. Gather up all your dusty doubts,
put then in the Ridwell bin.
Know they will be recycled into something useful,
like a park bench. Kneel at least once a day,
preferably at dusk, preferably
in front of someone or something that sustains you,
a bed of bok choy, a cantaloupe,
a trembling elm.
Martha Silano was the author of six poetry collections: Terminal Surreal (Acre Books, September, 2025), about her journey with ALS; Last Train to Paradise: New and Selected Poems (Saturnalia Books, October, 2025); This One We Call Ours (Lynx House Press, 2024), winner of the 2023 Blue Lynx Prize; Gravity Assist (Saturnalia Books, 2019); Reckless Lovely (Saturnalia Books, 2014); and The Little Office of the Immaculate Conception (Saturnalia Books, 2011). Her awards included North American Review’s James Hearst Poetry Prize and The Cincinnati Review’s Robert and Adele Schiff Award.
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