CITY COLLEGE FACULTY

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JOYCE 
In loving memory of Joyce Conoly Simmons 
CCNY colleague, friend, role model 
 
Jasmine 
Orchid 
Yam 
Coco 
Essence 
 
Joyful 
Outgoing 
Youthful 
Caring 
Engaging 
Jade 
Orange blossom 
Yellow rose 
Calla lily 
Effervescence 
Just 
Offer 
Your 
Compassion 
Eternally! 
 

  Jeanette Adams 
  Emerita  

 
 
ON THE EXISTENTIALIST FIRE ESCAPE 
 
The trees slowly began to bud 
life was playing in slow motion  
I eagerly wait at the window  
Hopes of gallivanting are dashed  
by a dusting of crystalline snow 

I invite you over, instead 
 
We listen to records and drink 
Bottle after bottle, we reminisce, for a spell 
The vinyls continue spinning 
transporting us to another time and place 
We recall those halcyon days 
of our wasted youth  
 
The sun peeks through watercolor clouds 
providing a touch of warmth to the brisk air  
I pour us a drink of amber, neat  
we envelop ourselves in blankets 
and climb out onto the fire escape 
overlooking Old St. Pat’s  
 
Folks below us eating and laughing  
at some trendy Instagram-worthy restaurant  
We lock eyes and smirk  
clinking our glasses together 
We’ve lived a thousand lives, by now 
yet this one feels the strangest 
 
But here, with you, on the fire escape  
with our “old men drinks”  
swirling around inherited crystal  
it feels like home, a place to yearn for 
somewhere to rest my weary bones 
when the world gets too heavy  
 
A sentimental song begins to play 
The one we listened to, repeatedly  
that time we drove to Robert Moses  
windows down amidst a snowstorm 
and sat looking out at the horizon  
breathing in the crisp sea air 
 
Like a thread of connection 
between the past and the present 
this moment lends itself to purpose 

I wax philosophical, musing 
The peek-a-boo sun kisses your face 
Silently, I thank the gods for this moment. 
 

  Jennifer Buño 

 
 
SNOW MELTING  
 
Here my mission starts, 
not in that harsh quilt 
but in my seepage, 
my diffusive self, 
 
running out of who I am 
into numbed soil, 
into the systems, 
the stunned, stilled roots, 
 
bulbs layered in their coats 
awaiting awakening, 
minerals admixing in clay, 
myself insinuating, 
 
stealthing right to your casket— 
not as resistant as they say— 
to wake your body with 
the wet warmth of decay 
 
and kiss you into 
a new, fifth season, 
telling the apple tree to curl 
an arm of root around 
 
your coffin’s shoulder so 
the fruit when I’m forgotten 
bears my fluid crunch 
of crystals broken open, 
 
and holds in sun and shade 

the taste of human meat, 
the body that departs declaring 
 
let me like you be snowmelt, 
let us be the disappearing 
into the disappearing. 
 

  David Groff 
  Originally published in LIVE IN SUSPENSE, Trio House Press, 2023 

 
 
VERBAL GYMNASTICS 
for Gregory Crosby 
 
Such mental acrobatics 
language leaping off the page 
 
and diction that’s dramatic  
language leaping off the page 
 
such specimens of beauty 
language leaping off the page 
 
it’s his poetic duty 
language leaping off the page 
 
sentiments that make me cry 
language leaping off the page 
 
intellect that’s running high 
language leaping off the page 
 
this poet is so deeply smart 
language leaping off the page 
 
he comprehends a broken heart 
language leaping off the page. 
 

  Pamela Laskin 

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THE TIN BOX 
 
When I take down the tin box 
decorated with swans  
that my mother left, 
I’m bequeathed needles of all sizes, 
cotton threads spool— 
ochre, tangerine, berry, pale pink— 
patches wait for repair, 
a crochet needle seeks a pattern, 
silver thimbles tip their hats 
and pearly buttons glisten 
next to small gold safety pins. 
 
In the corner, hooks and eyes look up 
with her question:  
what could I do in the world 
without a threaded needle?  
 
I find a needle  
to prick my senses, 
then pull the thread 
through patches  
of memory 
to stitch a garment 
that keeps her close. 
 

  Patricia Laurence 
  Emerita Professor  

 
DAWDLING PAST CURFEW 
 
Surely it was an error or a lucky punch  
that let me slip through  
and continue in this living room, 
the best room on the planet, 
when the others have left, 

some few, years ago 
some others, just lately. 
 
They no longer know I’m here 
in the room, or maybe,  
possessed by magic,  
some do know  
and think my way, 
feel into the corners 
of this large room.  
 
It cools a little  
every time someone leaves. 
All the coats, hats, scarves, 
neatly hung in the closet, 
are bored on their hangers,  
devoid of utility. 
 
So, I stick around  
and envision my needs,  
palpate my hunger,  
photograph all I can, 
find the music  
that keeps me listening 
and in touch with the players. 
 
Out this plate glass window 
beauties pass by, 
a phoebe, a falling feather, 
a postal worker with parcels; 
boys and girls who vibrate  
on the verdant lawn. 
The past tense makes no sense. 
 

Barry Wallenstein 
Emeritus Professor  

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THE FRENCH HOSPITAL 
 
for  a girl in love 
with all of Gaul, 
with Paris the hot core 
of dreams, 
was a terribly apt name 
for the place  I chose 
to take my friend Sarah 
when she  had no choice 
but come to New York 
from her idyllic pastoral of a college 
for an abortion. 
 
From Sarah’s world 
of four-o’clock teas  
and sit-down dinners served 
with democracy by revolving 
young ladies, from Sarah’s world 
of housemothers 
named Mrs. Nicely, 
to a risky street 
in the Manhattan 
which had seduced me 
as surely as the imagination 
of a stroll along the Seine, 
as surely as a real boy had seduced Sarah, 
we came together, 
but I stayed in the waiting room. 
 
The next year 
the housemothers disappeared,  
along with the gentle 
afternoons, and the white linen. 
 
Now I live 
on that same risky street. 
The Hospital’s transformed 
into The French Apartments, 
nice, with navy canopy, 

but nothing like the fearful sanctuary 
once offered by a girl 
who wanted everything 
to her friend Sarah 
who already knew the price.                                                                         
 

Estha Weiner 

  
 
QUESTIONS FOR MY BODY 
~after Eduardo C. Corral 
 
Could cremation truly set you free 
 
Is your vertebrae a poem 

if so, how many bones are in each stanza 

 
How many nights has it been since you’ve slept 
 
Can you ever have too many tattoos 
 

(whose body is it anyway) 

 
Did the voices in my head tell me your name 
 
Why didn’t you leave the bar hours ago 
 
You didn’t feel bad faking it 

but were your eyes open or closed 

 
Was it necessary to clean up stage 4 vomit 

at age thirteen 

 
Do you really need that many tiaras 
 
Was it your father who taught you 

not to smile in photos 

 

  Alyssa Yankwitt 

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