This is one poem only. I'm Maggie Devers. On Sundays we gather the weeks poems and

listen once more. This April is National Poetry Month and one poem only is doing

something special. It's called Right After. Listen to the daily poem then write

your own in response. Share it using hashtag right after OPO. I'll be featuring

selected poems on the podcast in June. I can't wait to write with you. In warmth how

many parts of tea have we forgotten to drink? Have we left sitting calmly on

the counter going from hot to warm, warm to cool, noiselessly with no

protest? As if our neglect was nothing to the brew, our forgetfulness marked by

indifference. But more is wasted than the tea, the chance to pause to commune, to

let the warm sweetness envelop us slowly, like IV covering a building, sometimes

taking years to grow. But slowly, slowly spreading to touch every cell to

remind us to protect our warmth. So we remember to shout when we are left alone

to grow cold, by Maggie Devers. Plotocracy and kitchens drops will drip each

brown in hue. A mother will keep her son from the truth. The Senate will swear

there's nothing to do. Though they tout their care for the nation's youth, a man

will cast his vote at 10 to noon. His ballot broken down in only two. He lives

inside a fading honeymoon with good intentions, having not a clue. Disease

inside him ticks just like a bomb. One year from now the hospital will close. He'll

find a plot to rest beside his mom. If only Congress told him how it goes. The

women's bodies know not rights of men. Thank God the rich can clutch their wealth

again. Bailesha Swain. Tony and or Tony. The Y is a hook, a barb in the

ground, a heavy-setched anchor, a masculine sound. It carries the dust of the

fathers and sons, my father and his son. The weight of the Tony who follows,

who runs. A name like a suit that is tailored to tight. Designed for the son yet

afraid of the light, to them it's a letter, to me it's a wall, a clinking

vibration that makes me feel small. But look at the ease, how they mirror, how

they gleam, a twin of silver, a space in between. Tony is a lift, a soft

rising key. The E is the breath of the person. It isn't a label, it isn't a

chore. It's the clicking of locks on the opening door. How do I tell them the

why is a ghost? A version of me that I've long demoted. How do I tell them the

E is the spark? The fun and the fire who glow in the dark? It's not just a

spelling, a quirk or a claim. It's the pulse in my throat. It's my name. It's my

name. By one men tree, Tony. Snail. In your spiral shell you hold the answer,

slowness is radical. From the ash pile of my burnout I see you everywhere, clinging

to walls, meandering through moss, criss-crossing my path, reaching unbelievable

heights and speeds that will win no medals. Just savoury in the silvery slowness of

your trail. In your spiral shell you hold the answer, softness is strength,

inching forward on vulnerable ripples, retreating when the world is harsh,

rebuilding your shell with self-made cold. In your spiral shell you hold the answer,

I too can change. My soft body thriving in gentleness, kintsugi shell gleaming in the light of

spring, as I carve my curling silver, life trail, slowly, steadily, softly, at my own snails,

pace. By Lizzie Elliott Klein, intuition, pattern recognition as a cognitive discipline,

congenitally decided for most, congested with emotion. Not a boast, but I'm a fucking psychic,

functioning on fumes and faint traces of a beauty who previously inhabited this body,

this brain, I'm mainline cues, it's smooth, yet dangerous, and almost cancerous paranoia.

Sometimes wildly, the past is a tool used primarily, utilize your history.

Intuition powerfully promotes fruition passionately, if tempted. Trust in the process prompted by your

progress. Byrism. Reduced. Easy winter option, ideal for layering over your favorite outfits,

regular fit, timeless crew neckline. The glory of a full price item chosen in the hot bloom of

the season, my size, my length, I take time to choose, plan ahead, create, build a look,

an image, or someone else's. The one I want to lay on me, the one that speaks loud what I want

it to say. A gift card redeems me and I walk like a cat away. Long sleeves feature subtle

fluting at the cuffs for a stylish finish, a staple for your occasion wardrobe.

Not every occasion has a desirable, describable outfit. January watches and waits to launch and

throw its missile attacks on a cratered high street, and I remember the decorum of the time before.

Arms reach and grab the crunch of hangars underfoot. The cruel mixture of trousers and skirts,

fighting colors, jumble sale, disordered sizes, line labels,

sale stickers skewer in helpless synthetics. I feel the loss, rubbing between finger and

thumb the fading image of careless success. I mourn the season of choice and purchase,

the easy accumulation, the beautiful utility of seamless day to night.

Poutine has become brick-a-brack. I battle, eye sharp for rivals at the end of the line.

Cropged length with belt to cinch you in, sharp, refined silhouette, a contemporary tailored cut.

By Roslyn Davies. A batat on a tyrant. Perfection of a kind was what he was after.

And the poetry he invented was easy to understand. He knew human folly like the back of his hand,

and was greatly interested in armies and fleets. When he laughed, respectable senators burst with laughter.

And when he cried, the little children died in the streets.

By W.H. Auden. Thank you for listening poetry lover.

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