July 2017 | poetry
Another of my father’s dense metal hand tools
That he’d never find or use again
once we took them from the shed.
That caught the exact size of things
by reach, touch, sight —
not needing inches and eighths
or arid calculation.
That turned perfect circles without
even trying.
That had a not-so-well-oiled joint
twisting between two sharp points, important
only in how far one was from the other.
That my brother and I blunted
by spiking it into rocky dirt and tree trunks
while almost always missing the
tiny, half rotten backyard apples
we aimed to impale.
That, after an unmeasured arc,
stuck, for a moment, just above my knee.
Lee W. Potts
Lee W. Potts has an MA in creative writing from Temple University and is a former editor of the Painted Bride Quarterly. His work has appeared in The South Street Star, Gargoyle, The Sun, and The Painted Bride Quarterly. He lives just outside of Philadelphia.
July 2017 | poetry
She had plugged
The holes atop
Her head with hair
To keep the brains
From knowing there
Was more to life
Than dark and matted skull.
But if she’d once
Considered the cold
Bare fish tail strands
A-dangling exposed
To brushes, combs,
Hot water, wind,
Men’s clutch, she’d
Maybe not have shrieked
When all the hairs
Sunk down to sub-
Skull, crowded round
Her thoughts, coiled
Tight – for warmth –
And lit a fire; set in.
The smoke, an alabaster
Hue – burnt bone?
That smoggy ouster –
Shrouded baldened
Skin, and left
An airborne trail
Like bread crumbs
For the damned
Behind her head
Where all she went then on.
Rebecca White
Rebecca White is a journalist based in New York City. She is a frequent contributor to The New York Times. Her poetry is as of yet unpublished. Rebecca’s poems reflect both her personal experiences and the experiences of those who have shared their stories with her. Much of her work focuses on protest, pain, and power.
July 2017 | fiction
Who are you?
You don’t know?
No.
I’ll come closer.
Your face. What happened to your face?
You don’t remember?
No.
Are you sure? Look.
It’s horrible. The holes in your face. Your chest. Your stomach.
Yes. So many.
Why are you laughing?
Children laugh. Don’t you know children laugh?
Stop. Stop it, please. The sound. It hurts.
Yes. It’s supposed to hurt.
But why do you hurt me?
I asked you that, too.
Please. Please I am begging you. Don’t look at me.
I have to look at you.
The sound, the sound! But who are you? I don’t understand. They said there would be virgins.
Marc Simon
Marc Simon’s short fiction has appeared in several literary magazines, including The Wilderness House Review, Flashquake, Poetica Magazine, The Writing Disorder, Jewish Fiction.net, Slush Pile Magazine and most recently, Everyday Fiction. His debut novel, The Leap Year Boy was published in December, 2012.
July 2017 | poetry
The Narcissist Hears What You’re Trying to Do There
Grabs your argument in a certain hand, clenches
your words in a fist,
spits
them back at you before you’ve decided
what you were even trying
to say. Perhaps
there wasn’t a manipulative germ
or any exhumed dirty word,
maybe
what he can hear and see
is the extent of it,
transparent,
but he’s perspicacious with a straight spine,
drawn to full height,
tongue
slashing, that dripping dagger
to remind
every syllable matters
in the way
it could possibly relate
to him. Admit
he wasn’t part of the intended audience,
meandering sentence
still unspooling from your lips?
Unthinkable.
Unforgiveable sin.
He has to stop you before you can begin.
Swing Song
Squeak creak squeal
squeak creak squeal: across the street,
a couple in their twenties
pumps long legs into glassy sky, bodies
flung nearly perpendicular
to the top of the bar, so high. Individual
horizons. Now she knows those sounds
last week at sundown
did not mean she was going to break
something.
How silly to think the weight
of forty-seven years means anything
to a swing
ready to squeak all comers into the clouds
and back to thirteen,
sullen, holding a Walkman
turned up loud, back to seven,
screaming in delight, pushed
so hard she had to hold on
tight. All the way home,
their palms will thrum
with effort while their minds
fly, worries having fallen
from their pockets like pebbles
into sand,
the smell of salty steel
still kissing their hands.
Kasandra Larsen
Kasandra Larsen’s work has appeared in Best New Poets, Hawai’i Pacific Review, Into the Void Magazine, Stoneboat Literary Journal, Two Hawks Quarterly, and others. Her manuscript CONSTRUCTION was a finalist for the 2016 Four Way Books Intro Prize in Poetry; her chapbook STELLAR TELEGRAM won the 2009 Sheltering Pines Press Chapbook Award. She is a two-time Pushcart nominee.
July 2017 | poetry
A few things you will seek
the morning after: wallets, words, contact
lenses, meaning, directions. Lessons
learned upon rising: kisses can complicate
as much as language, dividing desire
does not diminish desire, no victims
exist once the sun peels back darkness,
drink and decision. You will remember
what she was quick forget: boundaries
between teachers and students, rules
to minimise complication. You will stop
dressing up for her classes. You will not
feel the need to sit in front. But for years,
you’ll waste poetry on pointless questions,
never once raising your hand to ask.
Tania De Rozario
Tania De Rozario is an artist and writer based in Singapore. She is the author of And The Walls Come Crumbling Down, (Math Paper Press | 2016) and Tender Delirium (Math Paper Press |2013) – the latter was shortlisted for the 2014 Singapore Literature Prize. Tania was the 2011 winner of Singapore’s Golden Point Award for English Poetry, and is an alumna of Hedgebrook (USA), Toji Cultural Centre (South Korea), Sangam House (India), The Substation (Singapore) and The Unifiedfield (Spain). Her poetry and fiction have been published in journals and anthologies in Singapore, India and the USA, while her visual art has been exhibited in Singapore, the USA, Europe and the UK. She also runs EtiquetteSG, a platform that develops and showcases art, writing and film by women from and in Singapore. Founded in 2010, its current work includes the development and facilitation of art and writing workshops focused on issues of gender-based violence.
