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Two Poems from New Voices
by Richie Hofmann
—from the leafy, walled-in courtyard beside the house,
where fountain-water trickled
from a river-god's mouth
into the unseasonable heat of that afternoon, we watched
the heavy bees, clumsy in their flight, humming
against the bricks and orange tree blossoms.
Everywhere we walked, you would point out how the Japanese honeysuckle clings
to the walls and fences like mayflies.
Each star-shaped flower scattered its breath into fragrant burrs,
which the heavy, humid air held around us,
until, as if no longer able to hold,
all the aroma flushed away in the sky's own sighing—
Richie Hofmann is a graduate student at Johns Hopkins University. His poems have appeared in The New Criterion and Southwest Review.
by Emily Leithauser
You moved to Tokyo first, and Mother forgot
to shut your suitcase: your shirts tumbled out,
un-ironed themselves, lifted off the car
like kites. You sent back teacups, newspapered,
a flowered fan she opened with one shake.
When we arrived you bought us bonsai trees,
but only you knew what to do with them.
And then you lost your job, and we moved away,
leaving the trees with Japanese friends who sent
wagashi and dwindling news year after year.
Now Mother's dead, and no one will toss out
a dish sponge or a pillow. I buy you three:
two maples and one species I can't pronounce.
You'll trim the nail-sized leaves and twist the limbs
of what will soon be our inheritance.
Emily Leithauser, a PhD student in English at Emory University, has published poems and translations in Literary Imagination, Measure, Able Muse, The Raintown Review, and other journals.