July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
battered, bruised
used, overlooked
forgotten
poor yet rich in
faith unprotected
sex object in
the eyes of
bad and dark spirits,
bad and dark souls
innocent, saved, redeemed
in time
tired of working
for worth with (already)
a worthy name
short of being tall
obese yet healthy
enough to
survive, surmount, embrace
being troubled in
mind do
like to communicate
with only the truthful,
with only the wise;
a teacher, loyal friend
perplexing lover poised
in damaged purity…
Image of,
reflection of enmity
that keeps apart
two souls drawing near
E.
two shades of color
warming the
beauty of your
presence
a ray of sun-
lit sand
an island
who holds its miseries…
at a distance here
or far away
waiting, patiently
for sound to break
silence hitting
a sea called
lonely ears.
A heart
dying for hope
to have again
the true desire
of equal treasures
in a mirror of
equal measures
weighing you
into me
as an image
of we.
–Leah James
Leah James is an emerging African-American writer of poetry who writes in combinations of English, French and Spanish. She is a Midwest native who writes with the flavor of Chicago, the syncopated smoothness of St. Louis and gravity of the deep south.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
the Forgetting Look
This late in the year she’s coughing up a bed.
With a pair of scissors and a pen
she begins to lay the flowers out.
She opens her mouth and they fall
onto the pages of her book and she’s
started to hate them.
Volume after volume full and full of petal bits;
full of stem and seed.
But she can’t bring herself to lose them
nor can she help wish them away.
No matter how deep and black her longing is
or how vicious her words want to be
when she goes to speak them
they flock from her lips and flutter down.
‘Til they are saved-
crushed in the forever there of her book
(like a bible). Always to remind her
what weakness she is capable of.
shirt sleeves.
she goes on and buffs the bone-
how sinew is gold
and ribs pristine.
her temple-legs all adorned
she’s a flaming sword away
from making her point.
I’m more than happy down here-
pouring this stuff
down the hole.
my meat is murder and
the only thing hanging
in my halls is dust and noise.
she thinks these falling apart
skins are meant for honing and
keeping clean
I just want to sin some more
and pile on the dirt-
she won’t let me do the damage
– adrian ibarra
Adrian was one of the last students to graduate from Cal State Los Angeles with a BA in Creative Writing; he took it as an omen. He wrote a poem a day, every day, in 2010. The finished project can be found at fulltimecowboy.blogspot.com.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
No thing. No dream.
No soul toward
phosphorescence.
No burn. No black.
No come. No home. No
yes, no. No do, undo.
No sky, holler, hug.
No blue. No come back
as an ant or a king. No hover
over the body until it’s time
to let go. No know.
No now.
–Whitney Hudak
Whitney Hudak holds an MFA from Bennington and lives in Brooklyn, NY.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
And when it was over
I wondered how long
i would be immersed in that warm and familiar
feeling of loss. it seeps into me.
it never loses its density
can’t dilute it
even with the tears it sheds.
the tides come and go
and the moon and sun cycle in and out
but they come back
people and things frequently don’t. they go into a dust heap
of lost stuff some where out in the midwest, perhaps, or the other side of the world
they could also be right around the corner in full living color but i don’t see them
once i lost a brother for good
he went into an other life or world from this scarred one of wounded
and wounding people.
this foggy life this hazy world
the days and nights gray and black
i lost a cat
and then a school
and a piece of jewelry i loved a cottage where
i lulled in the summer’s sun in childhood
lost that too, two more cats
and now i’ve lost a house and another among the men, who’ve left or been taken
or been banished by my self
did anyone tell you that’s what life is a procession of losses and
jumping to stones in succession. don’t slip on that mossy one
or skip the shiny one
no telling what you’ll miss
or what will get broken or scraped or burnt or blistered, scarred by the scratch of a low hanging branch
what twigs or soggy weeds you’ll pick up
between your toes or around your neck, and you’ll have to carry them with you
the rest of the way.
– Siobhan Hansen
July 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by Patricia Guzman
Isabella became Iiisssaaa, moments after she was born. Her older brother, Miguel Trubino was five years old and was unable to pronounce her name as he held her in his twig-like arms at the hospital after her birth. What seeped between his jagged teeth was Iiisssaaa!
Their mother, had only minutes before pushed her newborn daughter through the narrow opening of her vagina the way you would force a boiled egg, absent of it’s shell, into a long stemmed shot glass. As she sat, her back propped on flat hospital pillows, her legs stretched beneath the thin blanket, she smiled and said, “¿Iiisssaaa? Qué lindo nombre.”
Iiisssaaa became: Isabella Rosalinda Trubino, weighing 7 lbs, 6 oz, and 13 in.
Isabella would grow up with a preference for knitting rather than sports, reading over socializing, and wearing rainbow colored clothing as thought a bag of skittles had melted and amalgamated into the thread that wrapped itself around her petite body. She wore dresses that reached the cap of her knees and sweaters with pearl buttons. Her dark brown hair and she wore it parted at the center with two braids crowing the top of her head.
She would often hide underneath the kitchen table while her family watched television in the living room or during parties her mother would throw for her and her brother’s birthdays, graduations, or holidays. As everyone else was outside battling for first crack of the piñata or waiting for their slice of strawberry and chocolate cake, Isa was under the table, in her pastel pink dress with hot pink ruffles and purple polka dot socks, knitting or reading.
It was there, with her dark brown hair haloed above her head where she first parted her lips and began to talk to Refugio, her imaginary dog.
Ms. Guzman is a first generation Mexican American with a Bachelors of Arts in Fiction Writing at Columbia College in Chicago.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Sharmila is so naïve
She can’t pick between prudence and courage
She flogs dead horses
She allows herself to be found traipsing through the tulips
She’s a slow unlearner
She loves her unteacher
She wants 364 unbirthdays
What she resists persists
She depotentiates herself, silly goose,
Until her soul screams,”STOP”
–Sonali Gurpur
Sonali Gurpur writes poetry and fiction. Her poems were recently picked for the ‘Commended’ and ‘Highly Commended’ categories of the Margaret Reid Prize for Traditional Verse, and for the city wide reading at the Austin International Poetry Festival. Her short story “See With Your Eyes Not Just Your Heart” was finalist at Glimmertrain.
