Flyover Country

April 2014 | back-issues, poetry

White warriors posted in the wind,
arms moving like synchronized swimmers
to a symphony of corn husks and diesel engines.

I see them towering in the distance like watchful
giants of a fairy tale once told. I am so small
and insignificant when standing next to them,
these monoliths woven into the heartland’s quilted fields.

You laugh at my imagination, I am silly you say.
They are our instruments of servitude, our slavers
built in dirt. They are our prophets, our masters,
our gods divined of necessity.

Three arms that go round and round like a prayer
to a trinity, a hallmark of destiny-
too fast for Quixote, not fast enough for dead dinosaurs.

—Sonya N. Groves

Sonya Groves is a teacher of English and History in San Antonio. She has published a short story in the Abydos Education Journal and has poetry publications in La Noria, The Voices Project, Aries, and Cliterature. Also, she has been a conference presenter at the East Carolina University Multi-Cultural Literature Review Conference. Currently she is pursuing her Master’s degree in English at Our Lady of the Lake University.

Gabrielle Tyson

April 2014 | back-issues, poetry

Symmetry

I look up at your face and can see

that you’re a little worried, too.

I know all about your oh-so-green dietary plan,

but in this bar

there isn’t even a salad.

What I really want is buffalo wings.

I swallow hard and do my best to smile.

You frown at the menu and finally gesture

for the waitress to bring a pitcher.

A date doesn’t require food.

Beer is enough,

right?

We lace our fingers,

tense around the glasses.

We have everything else in common,

everybody is always saying.

Our scuffed green Converse touch

as our heads bob like springs on our necks.

I resist the urge to differ on purpose –

“Oh no, I hate watching football.

So violent!”

But, I like football.

And cars and hikes and kissing in the snow.

I don’t mention that last one.

Not yet.

You go on about Queen and Zeppelin

and I wonder at how your lips shape words.

And I hope the beer is enough.

Heather

She sits next to me in class.

I feel her Tiger’s Eyes study

the pink warmth crawling down my nape.

She lounges at her desk, legs crossed,

leans toward me

possessively.

Her fingers wrap around my arm

and I imagine the heat

of her skin branding a scar.

But it doesn’t.

Not yet.

Her smile is eager.  Feral –

a predator’s seductive smirk.

A distinctly feminine scent lingers

in my throat; burns

sweetly.

“I like you,” she says.

It’s that easy.

—Gabrielle Tyson

Lost Weekend

April 2014 | back-issues, poetry

The burly bouncer, seated comfortably on a barstool,

mumbled with a sigh of boredom that he needed some ID.

I told him that, most certainly, all of us have needs;

food, shelter, and clothing are the most basic needs.

Love, companionship, and sometimes just someone to lean on

are other important needs.

I told him I needed a beer and a restroom;  not necessarily in that order.

For me, both of which were important needs.

Completely unflappable, he still needed some ID.

Telling him that he could probably satisfy this need

by looking in his wallet ended our philosophical discussion.

I pissed in the dark alleyway behind the bar,

and after taking a beer from the open storeroom,

ambled off into the still early evening.

It was Saturday night; Monday morning seemed to me

to be as relevant as the number of angels that could dance on the head of a pin.

—Roy Dorman

Roy Dorman is retired from the University of Wisconsin-Madison Benefits Office and has been a voracious reader for 60 years. He has had poetry and flash fiction published recently in Burningword Literary Journal, Drunk Monkeys, The Screech Owl, Crack The Spine, and Lake City Lights.

Janet Butler

April 2014 | back-issues, poetry

Drizzle

A fine drizzle softens the air

falls whisper-light

an almost-rain to glaze tired grass

and hard, cracked earth.

It lifts scents, musty cave odors

we love with our primal selves.

Earth stirs, the mist soft as a lover’s breath.

She sighs, content.

Drizzle

A fine drizzle softens the air

and falls whisper-light,

an almost-rain

enough to glaze tired grass

and hard, cracked earth

in denser shades of green and brown.

It wakes scents musty with the odors of earth.

She stirs under the touch, soft as a lover’s

breath.

She sighs, content.

no. 922

8 feb 14

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—Janet Butler

Janet Butler lives in Alameda with Fulmi, a lovely Spaniel mix she rescued while living in central Italy. “Searching for Eden” was published by Finishing Line Press in January, 2012, “Upheaval” was one of three winning selections in Red Ochre Lit’s 2012 Chapbook Contest. She recently placed, for the third year, in the Berkeley Poets annual poetry contest. She is moderator of the monthly Poetry and Prose at the Blue Danube in Alameda, and is a member of the Frank Bette Center for the Arts, where she will teach a poetry course and Italian language class this spring.