April 2012 | back-issues, poetry
For Peter Lake.
I still see you — haze of tweed, loafers, and cake
running towards the pub, rain pelting your back,
hair already fading white when I blew out the candles
how does it feel to be young; I could not answer
that night — noise, free beers, every man watching
me in red, a dress you bought but, I could only
see you, so handsome with your face alcohol-lit,
you, who quoted Cocteau, Whitman, Proust,
carried me home in the storm and laid me down
in your quiet room, four o’clock, I woke to puke;
found you on the couch, chest rising tiredly under
the weight of a book; I wrapped you in a quilt and
said a prayer — for longevity, past the red dress,
past numbering candles, to when I am wrapped
in a blanket, book on my lap, grey in my hair.
Jacqueline Thomas is a Literature major with a Creative Writing focus at Ramapo College of New Jersey. She intends to continue on to a Graduate-PhD program and receive her PhD in Comparative Literature.
April 2012 | back-issues, poetry
The Nameless
All summer I wander the cemetery
between the fenced-in family plots
and the ornate stone mausoleums.
Occasionally I find my way to the nameless
resting in the north corner;
orphans, tucked away
a century before
in that one place where
the sod struggled to take root.
There the markers are
little more than sand;
birthdates once carved
reduced to shadow,
as if those dates
were as inconsequential
as the bones tangled
in the roots below.
I wonder if their caretakers ever came
without planting another,
or if they sneer at them, even now,
through the white fences of the
manicured family plots across the path,
convinced that, as in life,
they were destined to make better dirt.
Along the perimeter,
an overgrown pyracantha
swallowing the black
of the wrought iron fence,
so that only the speared tips stretched
from the thorned belly,
every sprig in late bloom;
fragility falling, fair petals
loosed from the branches
to which they cleaved,
spreading casually
where the headstones met the earth
as though there were some covenant
set to celebrate the value of their flesh,
so fleeting, so forgotten,
but so much more to me than
those who busied themselves
buying implied comfort
that will never delay the inevitable.
In Dubitum Veritas
What if he comes asking?
Every now and again I pause to consider—
what? Possibility? Odds are he might come
with tempest blessings, bearing
questions of creation, divine inception, asking how
he came to be in that womb, at that time, and he will know that
we share more than consequence; what then will I do?
Answer the bleakest of his ponderings, unfiltered, uncensored,
the untruth utterances that are not fit for the moment, or
condemn him to know that all men make faults
and my faults made him.
When the time comes,
we will choose whether or not to walk the curves
of the Mobeus strip together, to rehash inches lost and gained
with each rotation, to sift through the honest sands
of hindsight; perhaps then I’ll know
whether or not to share the tale of how our lives
were one day woven, torn, and mended;
but which truths will I tell?
From the symphony of sorrow and joy colliding, it is clear
that all truths are just the sound of the innocence dying.
(re)collection
It comes in flashes,
blurred as the world on the other side
of stained glass;
back deck in disrepair,
untreated, crippled and rotted;
across the threshold
mound upon mound upon mound,
dog kennel buried beneath,
Rubbermaid barrel
brimful with nasty;
compost stewed in pots,
sink full with dishes, water,
and week-old potato peels—
black something steaming with fruit flies;
hallway carpeted in clothes
wet towels mildewed
on disintegrating tile;
half the living room
occupied with cabinets,
ten-year-old renovations
not yet begun;
a shag carpet path,
stained and matted with fur,
weaving through the gauntlet of the unidentifiable,
puerile trappings
frozen in the periphery
decimated by hackneyed chaos;
and beneath it all,
the petals of the lotus
crushed to potpourri—
a reminder of good
long lost.
by Daniel Ruefman
April 2012 | back-issues, fiction
by John Witherow
Mother was in the kitchen slowly stirring a steaming cauldron of Harvest Stew. Both Wesley and Aaron sat in the parlor, gently brushing Marjorie’s golden locks. Sweet aromas danced through the air, filling the house with a warmth and good cheer that had been vacant for decades.
Long had it been since the entire brood was under one roof – and this was truly a harvest to celebrate. Large casks of yams and mead were brought up from the cellar. Even Padre Lorenzo was meant to stop by and say the traditional Navish goat blessing before the great feast began.
Jeremy was wheeling in Brother who nearly leapt from his cage when he caught wind of that sweet slow-roasted acorn squash. In our formative years, we would hand feed Brother stringy bits of mule flesh and leftover crème cakes through his wrought iron bars. I can still see Brother’s quivering lips as he greedily inhaled ever morsel given to him. His razor sharp teeth tearing through bone and vein as if it were salt water taffy. Every Saint Crispin’s Day we would all gather around and laugh with delight as Grand Papa Alphonse would shovel burning embers onto the floor of Brother’s cage. Brother would hop from one foot to the other as his bloodcurdling screams filled the air and unholy terror flooded his eyes.
April 2012 | back-issues, poetry
783:
invention
becomes
the mother of
the incandescent
in here
beneath
the hum
and rigging
all
wires
and false
senses of
places to go
invention
becomes
tired of itself
tired of reinvention
tired of movement
and political traction
invention
all folding
back in
on itself
reminding us
of history
those calm
pages
we were read
as children.
784:
in the center
of the rug
eyes slightly
slanted
a half-sleep
a half-ringing
telephone
by the stairs
shes cold
in a thousand
hairs
while her
eyes
walk a thousand
miles
yesterday she
thought more
of herself
in the lighting
of the patio.
there is calm
amidst
the ruckus
amidst
the backbone
of her mouth
and she’ll know
more for certain
as the
ground stops
swelling.
785:
what
can we be but
children
when all we want
can be handed over
cash still writes
the checks
that pave
our feet
over the snow.
786:
the expression
written
on the wall
is that
the sweat
continues
its path
remains
on course
until
all the right
words
are soiled
into
the minds
of the children next
to the countertop.
787:
are we justified
in our
methods
actions
all leaving
the dinner plates
to a feeling
of the often-misread
no we’re still
in here
as cold
as birth
as tired
as youth
notion
the breath
as it reflects
off the walls
of January.
Joshua Robert Long is an American-born poet who’s work has appeared in OTCC Magazine, AURCO Journal, Fresh Fish, and The Hogcreek Review. He has an upcoming series of poems to be featured by Spork Press and is the author of 3 books: Translating The Avenues (Walleyed Press), Mixtape (Walleyed Press), and Leaving Frost Upon the Walls, which was self-released. More information can be found on joshuarobertlong.com
