Marriage

October 2010 | back-issues, poetry

I explain. You

hear shouting. You

regroup. I see

you’ve picked my scab.

You are reasonable. I

see shades clipped onto your bifocals. I

apologize profusely. You

sniff out expedience.

I am a nice Jewish dove. You

say I’m crazy, like Saul. You

throw me an olive branch. I

am cut by its thorns.

You gush blood. I

see no tears. You

will not take a dive. I

have loved you for eleven years.

Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé: three haiku

October 2010 | back-issues, poetry

a haiku and our night out

from ridge to ridge

camera projection left –

of freemans’ waters

neon billboards

one night in finders corner

with fiddle strings

the look of true love

st patrick’s day in sarawak

our plate’s green orchid

a haiku is a fitted appliance

knock on the porch door

sterling rose out of daisies

unsigned gift card

white and blue pills

syringe, thermometer, bedpan

empty bauhaus chair

a haiku is a hundred different ways

in good time

the stars shine brighter

sometimes longer bursts

at the festival

urban samurai in hemp

buttonquail – blue-backed

Desmond Kon Zhicheng-Mingdé has edited more than 10 books and co-produced 3 audio books, several pro bono for non-profit organizations. Trained in book publishing at Stanford, with a theology masters in world religions from Harvard and fine arts masters in creative writing from Notre Dame, Desmond is a recipient of the Singapore Internationale Grant and Dr Hiew Siew Nam Academic Award. He has recent or forthcoming work in Copper Nickel, Clutching At Straws, Dark Sky, Fence, Grey Sparrow, Presence, Nano Fiction, Notes from the Gean, Spilling Ink Review, Spork Press, Sugar Mule, and Write From Wrong Magazine. Also working in clay, Desmond sculpts commemorative ceramic pieces for his Potter Poetics Collection. These works are housed in museums and private collections in India, the Netherlands, the UK and the US.

Trail

July 2010 | back-issues, poetry

by JE Baker

The doe is dead, devoured by hounds.
Her bones lie by the river’s edge.
Curled small,
small is never long;
her body will grow and cast away the brush that veils her.
Her fair spots will fade with time.
It’s the sparrows that call her to run,
to stretch her legs long and flee.
But the fawn, she listens to the leaves
whispering that it is safe to stay.

I stood at the sink
scratching and scraping until fingertips were bloodied and sore.
As the water ran I thought,
her spine curved like the back of my ear –
her heart in a box.

It’s easy for the leaves to die.
The mantle of dirt shows the way.
Head south,
toward the river;
blood smothers the earth where half-eaten bones are still strewn.
Ash-covered tracks form a trail.
The Huntsman keeps her heart in a box,
to take to his aging Queen.
But from there an iris still watches,
warning her daughter never to stay.

The water was hot
and the steam held a stench like a scream at the back of the throat.
My eyes burned, but I knew
she hadn’t had time to not be timid –
she breaks like the doe.

Hidden, hooves tucked up underneath.
She rises and stamps on the ground.
Look at them,
her feet ashen;
slight and unsteady as they search for a suitable trail.
She won’t fall to the arrow.
The Huntsman thinks she breaks like the doe,
running, her tail in the air.
But the white flag isn’t surrender,
waning fear frees her heart lest she stay.

Some Things I have Learned That I Would Be Much Better Off Not Knowing

July 2010 | back-issues, poetry

by Madeleine J Deerly (1938-2009)

well here I was, facing another locked drawer without a key,
and not just metaphorically, although there is that.
thinking more crap that you accumulated and left me to deal with;
more coins, more stamps, more bills, a neatly
rubber-banded bundle of Publishers Sweepstakes entries
never sent in but saved because god knows why.
all that junk in my basement. a car that no one wants,
cowering in dusty mortification and leaking oil
all over a dozen or so cartons
containing nothing useful as far as I can see.
and I think, oh what a lovable idiot you were, you great big doofus
what a warm and funny simple guy, and wasn’t I lucky
to be the one you loved and left all this mess?
and wasn’t life more interesting and full because you were so careless
about the details, like putting the car title where someone could find it?
and wasn’t I just telling someone the other day
about how none of this mattered because you and I were always
so crazy about each other?
and isn’t it ironic now that I have to pay some guy $65
to drill out this lock and find this little pile of what will turn out to be
love letters from the Polish lady who took care of your mother?
yes, the very one for whom I wrote the glowing reference,
although my intention was not to refer her to you.
to whom was I talking, when I thought I was talking to you?
and just how long did you think it would take
for me to turn this into material?