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Dustin Brookshire

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Drifting Villanelle

Tomorrow is Monday. Say it ain’t so!
But there are, unfortunately, bills to pay
and so much in this world that I don’t know. 

I could tell you; instead, let me show
how capitalism can be a game to play,
like chess with too many kings. Say it ain’t so,

that playing rarely leads to winning, although
the words in my head are never those I say.
There’s so much in this world that I don’t know.

From the northwest, the coldest winds blow
stirring an old truth: there is beauty in decay.
But tomorrow is Monday. Sigh. Say it ain’t so.

I contribute 3%, praying my retirement will grow
remembering Frost— “nothing gold can stay.”
There’s too much about aging that I don’t know

So many damn facts to learn before I go. 
Where will I land when my soul drifts away? 
Will Monday be my last sunrise? Say it won’t be so, 
even if I crave the feral truth of what the dead know.

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Dammit, A Villanelle About the Moon

I’ve never written a poem about the moon. 
As a poet, I’m deeply shamed that this is true. 
It’s never too late nor ever too soon 

to turn up the volume on the playlist and croon
“9 to 5” while watching that white orb move into view
before reading Dorianne Laux’s Facts About the Moon.

I love to let my feet soak in the ocean until they prune
while daydreaming on the sand staring at a sky so blue.
I realize that it’s never too late nor too soon 

for a picnic on the beach with friends by a sand dune
or relax as if there is absolutely nothing else to do
before surrendering to another look at the moon. 

Often, I sit on my balcony and quietly hum a tune
while insomnia haunts, hoping to fall asleep by two.
It feels too late, and I beg for sleep to come soon.

Sometimes I eat ice cream and hold up my spoon
toward the sky to momentarily block the view,
fighting the urge to write a poem about the moon.
It’s written—not a day late or a moment too soon. 

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Survival

We earned Wallin Bucks for A’s on tests and correct answers in jeopardy style competitions. Dr. Wallin’s son’s face was plastered on every bill. Baby Matthew on the dollar. Toddler Matthew on the Wallin Buck five. Matthew, his son, my friend, loathed the monopoly-esque money but collected, nonetheless. Dr. Wallin was the first teacher to tell us that our city, Calhoun, would be destroyed if Carter’s Damn imploded. Think of your houses underwater, he said, No one will survive. These were the days before fact checking was at our fingertips. My parents looked puzzled when I shared the news. For weeks, each time our fifth-grade class went to the school library, I researched how to survive a flood. I knew the odds weren’t in my favor— I still held my nose when jumping in a pool. 

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Dustin Brookshire is the author of five chapbooks, including the forthcoming Contoured (Lily Poetry Review Books, 2027), and the forthcoming full-length collection For All Of Us Faggots (Iron Oak Editions, 2027). He edited the Lambda Literary Award finalist anthology When I Was Straight: A Tribute to Maureen Seaton and co-edited Let Me Say This: A Dolly Parton Poetry Anthology. More at dustinbrookshire.com.

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Joshua Barnes (he/him) lives in Chicago, and is the author of the chapbook Dressed for the Gods from Ghost City Press. His poetry has otherwise appeared in Diode, Villain Era Lit, &Change, and more. He loves poetry, horror fiction, comic books, and perfecting his handstands. He is on Instagram @jsb1800.

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