its my birthday, i'll supersaturate a post in poetry if i want to

Just One Insight
by Jenn Habel

Most afternoons we take the dogs
to the creek so the one can flail
through the water, the other
lie down and shred his stick.

We sit on rocks and watch them,
telling one another to look at
what, in most cases, he or she
already sees. Tuesdays, though,

he’s been to the therapist, so I
get to ask for Just One Insight,
a compromise upon which we
seem to have agreed. I wait as

he shuffles toward his revelation,
interrupting to say don’t take this
the wrong way or you understand
none of this is conscious, and I don’t

think I exaggerate when I compare
myself in those moments to
an addict whose next fix is in sight
but still slightly out of reach.

There’s a beached shopping cart
on the bank beside us, a fire
extinguisher, and, embedded
in the sand, many shades of glass.

That I’m always waiting for one
of the dogs to slice a paw may be
my worst quality; not minding
the cost of its stitching, my best.

*****

Wild Thing
by Kevin King

In the end, our argument isn't
about anything at all.
It's simply her testing
whether I'm still there.

The way she flops onto the couch
is the signal, the shock waves
of pure ostention as good as
a gauntlet thrown down.

In a parallel universe,
it is the mirror image of a game
in which the manager gets off the bench
and hitches her pants for a walk to the mound,

not revealing her intentions, entirely,
not threatening her starter, overtly.
It's still early in the game
and it's the first visit paid,

some therapy, some plea for control,
the puffed out cheek, like a squirrel's,
a dead giveaway. She lets some fly.
I've seen it enough before that I

recognize the good intentions,
what she wants to say:
Wild thing, I think I love you,
But I want to know for sure.

*****

Ash Ode
by Dean Young

When I saw you ahead I ran two blocks
shouting your name then realizing it wasn’t
you but some alarmed pretender, I went on
running, shouting now into the sky,
continuing your fame and luster. Since I've
been incinerated, I've oft returned to this thought,
that all things loved are pursued and never caught,
even as you slept beside me you were flying off.
At least what's never had can’t be lost, the sieve
of self stuck with just some larger chunks, jawbone,
wedding ring, a single repeated dream,
a lullaby in every elegy, descriptions
of the sea written in the desert, your broken
umbrella, me claiming I could fix it.