July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Falling
falling
from a
height
is a kind of
f
light
where
your
desti
nation
is
your
self.
In The Spaces
(Why)
You can only speak your words (to me)
only in the spaces between
your utterances,
and (Why)
I can only write my words (to you)
only in the spaces between
my texts:
Do you know that I measure time
not by minutes, not by hours,
not by days or nights, but by the
duration of your glance?
And yet here we are, feeling intimacy
only in the way our backs touch,
our faces turning strange
not knowing whether to age or to
remain the same,
for our faces have not faced
since (when?).
If I dared to call out your name,
will you turn to me? Will you let me
be again? Or will you not hear me
because you perceive speech
not by words, not by phrases
not by sound, but by the
movement of my lips?
And you cannot see them,
because we love the way our backs touch.
It ends for us
not knowing whether to turn or
to remain this way,
for our faces have not faced
since (too long ago).
The Youth
And it bothers us how
those heroes, whose names
we couldn’t care less about
died for their mother
land
as if she ever did them any good.
Yes, we are children
with no navels, no mothers
who graced us with her milk
because she was too dry;
too incapable of nurturing.
In ancient Sparta, they
used to send weak offspring
to meet the elements.
These days we do that to our mother.
Gentle Things
I used to keep roses in my garden.
They were most wonderful:
luscious red petals
silky smooth against my fingers…
I also used to keep rabbits.
They were most gentle:
immaculate white creatures,
hopping about the yard;
free to taste the grass,
to smell the leaves…
but they only had eyes
for roses.
Surprisingly, they didn’t mind the thorns,
the risk of getting pierced was worth taking
for a taste of the nectar dripping
from red veins.
Obviously, I tried to stop them:
I carried the rabbits by their
hungry bellies,
and lifted them
to someplace else,
but they always returned
to where they’ve been,
gnawing and eating,
until what remained were
scraps of what was once
the crowning glory
of my garden.
My roses, killed by mere
gentle things…
Bonsai
Sturdy branches, destined
to grow tall, to bear fruit, to live life.
But the hand that feeds it takes from it
its destiny.
Oh, impaired child, what will she say
When your mother finds you,
Tiny and battered?
Oh, impaired child, what will you tell her
When she weeps for the death that you live?
Will you smile? Will you say you’re fine?
It’s a shame, but I think you will,
After all, you take pride in your
Bro
ken
limbs,
the ones disciplined
yet broken.
–Rina Caparras
Rina Caparras writes fiction, nonfiction and poetry. She is a senior student at the Ateneo de Manila University taking up Creative Writing. She also writes reviews for a local magazine.
July 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by Diana Cage
This morning I really wanted you. I’m not sure if you wanted it and if you didn’t then it isn’t the same. You got out of bed while I was still sipping coffee, not yet awake enough to realize I should have moved faster. Should have made a move or even just asked.
Your brain is somewhere else now, sipping Kenyan coffee in a café that boasts about its hand pours, but how else would it get in the cup? My mind is on a dull, dual ache, a dichotomous throb split between my left temple and a spot considerably lower. Artifacts from last night. The beer animated me, your hand on my lap gave you away. You like me like that.
Other couples seem fragile. I’m worried about Julia and Allison’s fate. The west coast is mythical, until you are there and realize anything outside the city proper is as populated by strip malls as the midwest. Don’t go, I kept thinking. They couldn’t hear me. They weren’t tuned into the same frequency.
You were shocked when I told you I thought they were making a mistake. They are teetering. Why don’t I stop them. Their fragility fortifying us. Not to worry, we aren’t them. We aren’t moving to California.
You were tapping your foot, our glasses empty. Ready to go. We fell into bed too tired and drunk for sex but this morning I regret it. There aren’t enough perfect moments to let any get away.
Diana Cage’s most recent book is A Woman’s Guide to Sexual Ecstasy, forthcoming from Seal Press. She was formerly a pornographer, then a radio talk show host and now teaches Women’s Studies at Brooklyn College.
July 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by Mary Cafferty
He looked at her and he asked: are you dreaming still? She closed her eyes and her hair burst into flames, sending shimmering golden sparks across the wooden floor of their tiny one-bedroom apartment. And his eyes were blue and they were pouring out water that could not quench her or drown her but hold her only, curving around her small smoldering shape. She looked in and in and into him and said, finally: yes, I think I am. And the day drained out of their tiny space and then there were no walls and then they were just fire and water standing together in a field of sunflowers. In the yellow field, the two wove entwined until they were one elemental rope, fire and water holding hands, arms against arms, mouths against mouths. And then they were steam – two bodies become one cloud. Recombined, they felt their atoms grating together as they floated up over a thousand wavering yellow suns, relishing that delicious atomic friction and he looked at her and he looked at her and he was water again, crying back to the earth, where she collected him in small galvanized buckets knowing the answer to the question he could never ask was: always, always.
Mary Cafferty enjoys the sound of typewriter keys. Her work has appeared in Borderline, as well as Westfield State University’s literary journal Persona, and has been presented at Sigma Tau Delta’s annual international conference.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Outside, herself again, effects of kill
and cure alleviated by the news,
she’s dancing early morning Braille grace notes
along the woodland ride. She pauses, high
on her consultant’s view, “Not visible,”
charmed by a ring-of-feathers fairy sign
against the broken stile. “Yon sparrow hawk,”
he answers to the question on her mind
as yet unasked; “her feeding post.” She knows
him from the local, captain’s chair, beer mug
above the bar; old gamekeeper, skin like
gnarled bark, wax jacket, corduroy, retired.
“Whole different world,” to poison, trap or shoot
all compromises to his grand design:
“I’d bide nest-side for hours, stock still. One day
she lighted on my gun, dark mantle, wing,
locked feet, mere inches from my gaze.” He peers
behind her fear-crazed eye and reads her pain,
admires her pulsing breast, life force within.
“I let her be that spring. Next year? Lord knows!”
–Peter Branson
Peter Branson has been published or accepted for publication by journals in Britain, USA, Canada, EIRE, Australia and New Zealand, including Acumen, Ambit, Envoi, Magma, The London Magazine, Iota, Frogmore Papers, The Interpreter’s House, Poetry Nottingham, Pulsar, Red Ink, The Recusant, South, The New Writer, Crannog, Raintown Review, The Huston Poetry Review, Barnwood, The Able Muse and Other Poetry.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
human sky
tendrils of flaxen wind dance
unbeknownst,
billows & curls into incandescent
orbs, blinded-
blinks, and heaves open
the mouth and its million raindrops,
faint caress of song lingers, a heavy fog;
and shoulder blades beg to beat
faster
to the tune of flight, arms flail solo-
a slow push and legs swim
amid stratus
as naked moons peek toward a sunrise,
hail intensifying the mien.
holiness hurts
night and her mortifying
caress,
beautiful lightening-
I am lonely child
deserted and small,
insignificant to your power,
crouched without morning’s touch.
–Christina Borgoyn
