July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Wine Tasting
Breathe,
but don’t inhale.
Taste and swish,
but don’t swallow.
The experience
lasts a moment,
then discarded
into a silver bucket.
So dignified,
so proper,
delicate ladies
with perfect hair
spitting blood
red mouthfuls.
Falling in Love Outside a Ryan Adams Concert
Into a swirl of smoke and music,
awkward chatter fades away.
Cigarette smoke mingles with,
Just put your arms around her already.
A woman laughs.
Pretense of scalped tickets
falls away, as we move closer,
pressed together in the rain.
by Laura Baker
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Strange Trials
If you must drown or burn, please burn.
At some point, you must choose a scent
(ascent, descent) and go with it.
I’ve never seen why we shouldn’t put our bodies through
strange trials for no reason other than that freedom
is knowing perfectly and exactly all the walls of your cell.
Everything survives flames. Imagine
touching the nonexistent
top of the sky, your body in ashes on the wind’s wings.
Revelation, like all sensations
is for one person, time and place only.
If it is true, as Moses knew,
that the desert is God’s country,
the void speaks volumes.
The Visitation
In the event of a visitation—
some presumably all-knowing being
coming down to chat—my protocol
is to first ask, Is there a God?
So when God Himself appeared to me, I asked this
and He replied, in His unmistakable voice, No.
The sky turned green and chairs
collapsed under people all across the city.
All I could do to demonstrate my faith was walk
out on a frozen lake, tiny cracks following
my every step. Laws are governed
by miracles, and these can never be broken.
This was in Truth or Consequences, New Mexico
late November. What an unbelievable name.
People had thrown rocks onto the ice
some heavy ones even broke partly through.
When I stepped back onto the dock, my hero’s
welcome consisted of a black sun-abandoned line
of trees standing behind a field of yellow
grass poking curiously out of the snow.
by Dustin Junkert
Dustin started writing in order to impress girls. Most girls aren’t all that impressed by writing, he has found. But here’s hoping. Dustin lives in Portland, OR. He recently had an essay published in the New York Times, and poems in The Journal, South Carolina Review, the Minnesota review, Weber, Georgetown Review, GW Review and New Delta Review.
July 2012 | back-issues, fiction
We drink until we become different people. Fuck each other stupid to see who gets the most injuries. There’s a tally chart on our bedroom wall. There’s a 911 dialed on a cell phone. There’s a dispatcher somewhere waiting to hear one of us say, “I don’t know how it happened.” Last night I went to the hospital. Two broken ribs and a plum eyeball. I was trying to be Angelina Jolie. He was Seth Rogan. I think we were going for the next cult classic. I have bark skin where my virginity used to hide. Instead of a heart beat in my stomach there’s a fist looking for asphalt. I don’t get knocked up. I get knocked out. I can’t remember what missionary position is except that one person is on a mission to find a tidal wave while the other waits for something to happen. And it never does. Who is this man lying next to me? His breath throws Irish car bombs into the mattress. They explode into nightmares. I see a ring and I don’t know what that means. I can’t remember what marriage is except someone stares at a wedding cake, wondering whether she is the bride or the groom, and the other person can’t find the knife. It’s between my hip and my uterus. Here. Take it.
by Jessica Farrell
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Thousands of leaves scatter toward us,
New Year’s confetti.
Icicles—test tubes,
bruised apples—a baby’s beating heart.
A needle pokes in and out in and out
sewing your name.
This is the season in between seasons.
Our paddles cut through water,
reminds me of my mother’s porridge
thick, lumpy, never the same consistency.
Your fishing line jerks, the fish escapes.
Your spinner stuck to a tree branch.
We had banged on the rack of bones that
was the canoe’s chest.
Mice ran out,
tiny blind bodies clinging to their mother’s
nipples, naked in the presence of the Red-Tailed
Hawk.
This is the funnel of nature.
I’m swept up between The Valley,
her hips straddling me
the explosions of artillery
from the Gap sound.
I feel the contractions
before she gives birth.
The earth’s blood pools
beneath my feet.
by Sarah Grodzinski
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
If you murder, if you need help, if you get sick, my parents say but what not insane? why not gay, why not lesbian- why not college drop out, religious drop out- out of morals out of luck—sorry, blessings — what we do, what we choose, merits love, merits obligation- but what you are is Christian, is nice, is ambitious and going to school and write a book, write a novel- Lord forbid you be complacent. Lord forbid they should know- out of chastity, out of virginity, out of love- out half a closet why not him? why not her? In his car, in her bed, in his bed- in his mouth in her bra, Blood rush, tongue rush, hip thrust, lip sucking, hair damp, body heat, in heat, treated like meat. why awkward? why not just say cock and curve and clit and clip your teeth against his throat, head thrown back. back arched again-eyes closed again, tipsy again? curious again, happy again—
Passion. and harlot and scarlet letter, and floozy and slut and whore mongering temptress and in love again– and casual again. with consent again. Love won’t cover this again- Don’t have sex they say, don’t even think gay is okay they say, the Bible they say and listen they say. and yes sir and ma’am I say
my mind in the car, in his car in her car, the shoeprint on the ceiling of my car. They’ll love their kids no matter what, they say– they don’t know what what is, I say.
by Amanda Ramirez
