April 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Like The Blue Like Infinity
From you,
the wings of a seraphim grow.
Like the blue.
Like infinity.
You tore the currents from
the shore,
you belted the sky against its flesh and
held back the threat of rain.
But there was a recent time when you
fell through the thick of clouds
and fell some more,
the heart pattered out,
the bone slipped into death,
and the truth peeled away at the skin.
A limpid metaphor.
Your tendons were led, strung up like
skulls on pikes.
Your tears, clear droplets mingled with
plump pity were
flicked beneath the burning sighs.
While breaths wrung out to be strangled by
the claws of mud-coated ground.
But, the patient one, with hearty bale of madness
you had carried on.
Stripping apathy of its sorcery.
Leaving it eyeless and dull.
Then you stirred when tomorrow arched
across yesterday,
where the hallowed calm
darkened over water-lights of today.
Pleasures and pain. Glory and shame.
And skyward to light you soared,
on extended wings.
by Lana Bella
Under My Dark
Five long hours. Under my dark. I sprawl awake.
Tumbling through the house. Sinking against the
windowpane, watching rained acoustics patter on
the terraced roof. Cries of raindrops. Mingle with
a symphony of ghosts roaming about me. Then I
pour myself a memory from a simmering cauldron,
flavored of alphabet scars and flakes of consciousness.
Hands on the pot. A sudden blink. How do I pour the
liquid thoughts and lettered inks into a bottomless beaker
without leaving my body in a pool of shadows? But now,
my lips thirst for drink. To warm over the cold where the
bone is hollow. Until, I lean in, something exposed and
glassy, echoing on the surface. It is my eyes staring back
at me. Gliding through the fluid with hooked arms. And
its mouth slurping up the pale gullet, heaving off the
squirting blood. The muddy mass of flesh throws up
in the mirage. Then high above, a dullard of rain again
breaks over the house. If I listen, my heart would once
more weep and my eyelids would suspend in tears. So I
stretch my skin where the stairs lay muted and heavy,
under the particled air into which darkness goes.
by Lana Bella
Lana Bella has a diverse work of poetry and flash fiction anthologized, published and forthcoming with more than sixty journals, including Aurorean Poetry, Burningword Literary Journal, Eunoia Review, Mothers Always Write, New Plains Review, The Criterion Journal, and Featured Artist with Quail Bell Magazine, among others. She resides in the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, with her novelist husband and two frolicsome imps.
April 2015 | back-issues, poetry
could have seemed more mundane
than an accidental Safeway run-in
after you simply stopped your pursuit
and, instead, went after groceries.
You wore brown, reminding me
of New Yorkers I used to watch,
in grey flannel flesh,
seemingly unfamiliar with sun.
Nothing more mundane.
Just grey and brown and we had to,
or I did, speak. You had been the sun,
the foreign flare, bursting last time
we met with life.
You saw me again and your hands
hung from your jacket
like leaves dead early on branches
in another fall. Nothing of life
was left, neither precious gold or warmth,
or Spanish rhythm. Only packaged meat
and bagged produce. Hands off,
and an explanation I had to buy.
by Alita Pirkopf
Alita’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Alembic, Caduceus, The Chaffin Journal, The Distillery, The Griffin, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Harpur Palate, Illya’s Honey, Lullwater Review, Quiddity, RiverSedge, Ship of Fools, Westview, and Willow Springs Review.
April 2015 | back-issues, nonfiction
‘Time to count it out,” said Tommy the gay black manager. I always liked Tommy, he was not stupid, he was good to us and not needy or demanding. The black girls started counting out the chicken pieces and talking shit as usual, I listened in because they were blunt and funny. Some of them didn’t mind pocketing money from customers. I walked across the greasy floor and started counting out the leftover pieces of chicken and bucketing them, planned to take home some original recipe and red beans and rice. One last group of customers appeared at the register, a black dude ordered a two piece chicken and biscuit, by accident he got two boxes but paid for one, a white dude in the crowd called him out, they went out to the parking lot and squared off, the black due took off his belt and started swinging it at the white, this went on for a couple minutes then Tommy told us to stop watching and get back to work.
by Joel Rook
April 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Boom!
Rivets from the 50-foot distillery tank busted from the flimsy
metal sheets exploding with molasses onto Boston’s North End.
The two million gallon wave thrashed people
into billiards, freight cars, and stables.
Children who had once collected the seeping sucrose off the tank for
suckers were trapped under its girth and met their gooey graves.
Teamsters and librarians on their noonday lunches sitting in the balmy
climate were strangled by its syrupy brown glaze and swept under it like trash to a dustpan.
The trotting of horses through the city hauling goods came to a stop –
their hooves stuck to the street as bugs to flypaper.
Houses and stores didn’t go unscathed either – being wrenched from their
roots and ensnaring electrical poles, trucks, and the firehouse in its glutinous wake.
Twenty-one died and another 150 injured, but to this today
the air still lingers of the sweet smelling
molasses.
by Arika Elizenberry
Arika Elizenberry is a native of Las Vegas, Nevada. She has been writing poetry for over ten years; some of her favorite writers are Richard Wright, Maya Angelou, and James Baldwin. Her work has appeared in the Silver Compass, Neon Dreams, Open Road Review, and East Coast Literary with forthcoming works in ZO Magazine, 300 Days of Sun, Blue Lyra Review, and Aspirations. She currently has an A.A. in Creative Writing and is working on her B.A.
April 2015 | back-issues, poetry
“To write poetry after Auschwitz is barbaric. And this
corrodes even the knowledge of why it has become
impossible to write poetry today.”
-Theodor Adorno
Follow me,
from fields of white Asphodels,
to Tainaron’s gate,
now open like Hades’ heart.
Hopeless darkness,
fires at our heels,
the brass walls of hell sweat
bullets when we flee,
Me from you, you,
my Eurydice
And if all my love could not turn back
to see such beauty, then I am ghost,
I breathe the airs of hell.
Turn back, turn back, I wish to see
the beauty of Eurydice.
No longer can I write poetry
for all my loss
has stopped my hand just inches from the
parchment. And the songs,
once played for all,
have been lined up, and
damned, one by one,
to the pits
below.
With all my heart I plead
To take back Eurydice.
No Virgil can help my art start bleeding
from the lands I’ve once known so dear,
Mount Helicon’s foot.
In that hell where ash rained
like sand in time,
I try to free myself
from Eurydice.
by Nicholas McCarthy
