January 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Jacuzzis are holy.
Garage door openers are holy.
Back-up cameras and recycle bins—all holy.
Putting the red flag up on the mailbox, waving at the elderly
getting my toes wet with dew—holy, holy, holy.
Keeping my eyelids open and trying to sleep like fish,
signing my name with less letters and more scribbles,
counting crows feet, counting yellow toenails,
counting haircuts, counting plucked whiskers,
counting constantly.
Bookshelves are holy.
Missing dust covers are holy,
magicians and black and white T.V. shows,
Penn Jillette theories and Andy Griffith justice,
Uncle Walt songs and Ginsberg poems—holy, holy, holy.
Drinking beer before noon, drinking liquor right after,
drinking it warm (or on ice) with a friend (or not).
Waking up drunk, waking up sober,
waking up tired, waking up hungry,
waking—always holy.
Table wine is holy.
Candle sticks are holy,
dishwashers and cloth napkins,
the folk art cricket made from wire and a railroad nail,
rock salt from the salt flats in a salt cellar—holy, holy, holy.
Opening an empty cedar chest to still moths and crumbs,
staring at stretched cobwebs immersed in the sun,
swallowing nests, swallowing nectar,
swallowing chimes, swallowing saliva,
swallows—always holy.
Self-portraits are holy.
Ceramic urns also are holy.
Tape recorders and keyboards,
drawing pads and gold-plated ball-point pens,
calligraphy and stipple—holy, holy, holy.
Unfolding a letter, unfolding a chair, unfolding
into downward dog, from child’s pose, into corpse pose.
Picking apricots, picking green grapes,
picking out a husband, a shower curtain,
selection—always holy.
Twist-off caps, dresser drawers, remote controls,
carpeted stairs, revolving doors, product recalls,
keycodes, passwords,
restaurant reservations,
last-minute invitations,
cell phones, voice recognition,
land minds, and secrets—holy,
holy word, holy water, holy book,
holy soap boxes, bathtubs, soap dishes—holy,
holy drains and draining, empty.
—originally published by Chagrin River Review online journal, Lakeland Community College, Fall 2013. Online.
by Trish Hopkinson
Trish Hopkinson has always loved words—in fact, her mother tells everyone she was born with a pen in her hand. She has two chapbooks Emissions and Pieced Into Treetops and has been published in several anthologies and journals, including The Found Poetry Review, Chagrin River Review, and Reconnaissance Magazine. She is a project manager by profession and resides in Utah with her handsome husband and their two outstanding children. You can follow her poetry adventures at trishhopkinson.com or on her Facebook page.
January 2015 | back-issues, poetry
wrapped in headscarves and blankets
you wait on your wooden rocking chair
sky black with the stars falling
around you like leaves of autumn
for it is that season where change
is inevitable and the air carries cold
and new riches to your nose and mouth
with dawn approaching as fast as it does
you aren’t sure which birds speak first
though a cacophony sets your spine
more erect in that sitting position
so you begin to release yourself against
the covers you’ve brought and suddenly
your body shivers with the first sight
breaking the horizon at eye level
a shriek of color sends vibrations
through your ears and down to your toes
with the birds wailing and the sky brazened
like you’ve never before felt
so that lake ice before you begins to melt
and the release of methane shoots
in all directions to mirror that light
so you unfasten your layers to the ground
for our sun’s enduring warmth
by Andrew Gavin
Andrew Garvin completed his undergraduate degree in International Relations from the University of Southern California. He now lives in Wilmington, North Carolina taking Creative Writing at the University of North Carolina Wilmington.
January 2015 | back-issues, poetry
ju·ve·nes·cence ˌjo͞ovəˈnesəns/noun: juvenescence
The state or period of being young.
Hours unrequited in coils round the orb
Fled skins ride slip shod over freshly mown lawns
A hiccup, a sneeze, a tongue clipped by the shut door
Beyond reach of recovery in the suburban predawn
Bottle fed hours a morning worm tried down throats
Hands and often mouths washed out with soap
Saturday morning, rug burns, quest for the lost remote
Fatherless but not unwilling to cope
Nestling the soft belly asleep in the garden weeds
Sprung from the rain dark soil in beds
Wild and abundant fury of split seeds
To roost and rabble rouse to apprehend
Inspires ancient capillaries to shine out blue
Or purple abloom with new bruises
by Tina Garvin
Tina is currently completing her BFA at the Illinois Institute of Art-Chicago. Her poetry has most recently been published in Blueline Literary Journal and Shoe Music Press.
January 2015 | back-issues, fiction
My little brother has rolled himself into a ball in the back of Grandpa’s pickup while mom—Grandpa is a mean bastard she says—is hollering at him to hurry the hell up before little Sammy dies. We—my sisters and I, and my brother who is bleeding all over the place—are being thrown about in the back of the pickup as Grandpa races towards the far horizon. We are forty miles from the nearest town with a hospital. And mom can’t stop yelling, pointing, and she can’t stop giving little Sammy that worried look. We should all be afraid, but we’re not. Nothing bad has happened to us since Dad died three and half years ago.
Upfront, mom rummages through her bulging black purse, removes a cigarette and lights it. She holds the lit cigarette up for Grandpa to take. He puffs and exhales until it’s only ash—never once taking it from his mouth. After he’s finished, he raises his giant hand and adjusts the rearview mirror. So that I can see him every-so-often glaring back at us, glaring back at little Sammy. He’s old and wrinkled, his face droops heavy with skin the color of tree bark. His eyes, when they look at little Sammy, are as dark as clay. I try remembering when Dad was still alive, and what it was like when we didn’t have to live with Grandpa, but I can’t, so I close my eyes tight as I can and pray that Sammy will be okay. In the rambling wind, we all gather around him, huddling each other for comfort. And, quietly, I pray for the rest of us, even Grandpa.
by Bill Cook
Bill Cook, a Southern California native, has plied a variety of trades, including cabinet maker, carpenter, general contractor, home designer and builder, and currently is employed as a certified building inspector. He has been published in Juked, elimae, Tin Postcard Review, Right Hand Pointing, The Summerset Review, SmokeLong Quarterly and in Dzanc’s anthology Best of the Web 2009. He currently resides in a small community situated within the Sierra Pelona Mountain range.
January 2015 | back-issues, poetry
and the streets are running out
with people and rickshaws, motorbikes (there,
four adults on a single cycle), water buffalo
stomping through traffic,
tilting their chins in response
to horns begging them to move.
The traffic slips ahead,
crawling over itself like snakes in a pit,
falters, stops to ruminate, begins again.
And a child knocks
on the window, shines her red teeth,
seeks money to buy water,
or for the man who owns her.
He’s out there, somewhere. Everything kicks
again, we move through the storm of dust.
A man leaps into a moving bus,
his plastic sandal falls
and tumbles to die upon the street. The bus keeps on,
traffic stops.
another shoe flies
from the bus door, expelled as from a kick,
either angry, resigned, or neither.
by Kevin Eldridge
Kevin recently graduated with an MFA from Indiana University and works as an English and SAT tutor.
