Full Shade by Sonja Johanson

Full Shade
by Sonja Johanson

Today, she aches. She wakes with the long stretch
of groaning belly and back, the howl of inner thighs
unused to slaving, fingertips ripped by thorns.
Yesterday, all day, was spent crouching, weeding
the shady soil she had ignored for so many summers.
Toad-lilies revealed themselves behind the crunch
of jewelweed stems; ramps, planted before
her third child came to take her time, shot
up minute scapes. No one knows the things
which grow in the beautiful dark, the lungwort,
wood poppies, swaths of bloodroot advancing
out of mind. She opens the garden, remembering.

Sonja Johanson serves as the training coordinator for the Massachusetts Master Gardener Association. She has recent work appearing in the Albatross Poetry Journal and Shot Glass Poetry Journal. She divides her time between work in Massachusetts and her home in the mountains of western Maine.

Footloose by Sonja Johanson

Footloose
by Sonja Johanson

Today, I set free all the odd socks – the whole jumbled
mismatched basket of them. Perky, purple girl ones
with their tattoo patterns; black and navy dress socks
you couldn’t tell apart; an enormous herd
of white cotton ones, all sizes. So many years
spent guarding and sorting by age, colour, material,
owner, size. Patiently watching for missing mates
that the dryer long ago chewed to lint.

But I had to admit it was time to let them go.
I made sure that they were dry and clean,
stroked their fuzzy wool, then tucked them
in their basket, and drove to a nice spot
in the country. I lifted the lid and watched
them slip away. The house is so quiet now.

Sonja Johanson serves as the training coordinator for the Massachusetts Master Gardener Association. She has recent work appearing in the Albatross Poetry Journal and Shot Glass Poetry Journal. She divides her time between work in Massachusetts and her home in the mountains of western Maine.

At Starbucks, I Cut in Front of Ming Tsai by Sonja Johanson

At Starbucks, I Cut in Front of Ming Tsai
by Sonja Johanson

Fifteen minutes until class
And a ten minute line at Starbucks.
But I am not teaching for six hours without caffeine,
So I huff, stamp, and fret, but queue up.
Check email on my iPad, drum my anxious fingers.
One mother, toddler in tow, can’t choose a pastry.
The woman before me gets cappuccinos for her whole office.
Finally, I can order my triple grande soy latte
One pump mocha, one pump mint, extra hot,
No whip, no foam (yes, I’m that complicated)
Only to find out my gold card is fifteen cents short.
So I run to the car, get some change, run back,
Rush to the counter, thrust the coins forward.
Then I look up, to apologize to the man I jumped in front of.
I recognize the even features, the camera-ready face,
And he recognizes the look of being recognized.
We stand, awkwardly, side by side,
Waiting for the barista to finish our drinks.

Sonja Johanson serves as the training coordinator for the Massachusetts Master Gardener Association. She has recent work appearing in the Albatross Poetry Journal and Shot Glass Poetry Journal. She divides her time between work in Massachusetts and her home in the mountains of western Maine.