be one and see this rose with me
she will snare and tear all that
care enough to be bold and hold;
all told, beauty reins with pain,
with a heart that will start and dart;
a tart, not a weed, she will need,
indeed, but inspire a choir and
a fire of want, she will taunt
a soul to pluck and tuck; she may
bring luck to a lover; discover
and uncover her scent; content
in her enchantment as she vies to die
by Kim Farleigh
The glass roof left rectangular light on the sand, the swaying bull swaying beside the light, as if listening to music, death’s orchestra calling, the bull’s left back leg in front of the leg it should have been next to, blood dripping from its nostrils, a gold rectangle of light next to where the bull was swaying, swaying to an irresistible calling, the sword sticking out of the bull’s back, the matador’s triumphant hand shaking before the bull’s face, the bull falling into light, a courageous bull that had run in straight lines.
The bull got dragged by horses around the ring, the crowd applauding a being whose courage had taken it from darkness to light, the bull floating through that light.
A blizzard of fluttering, white handkerchiefs erupted around the ring, an expression of appreciation for both man and bull, fabrics like butterflies escaping towards light.
Kim’s stories have appeared, or are forthcoming, in Whiskey Island, Southerly, Island, Mudjob, Write From Wrong, Sleet, Negative Suck, The Red Fez, Red Ochre Lit, Haggard & Halloo, Down in the Dirt, The Camel Saloon, Feathertale, Descant, The Houston Literary Review, The Sand Journal, Full of Crow and Unlikely Stories.
The red shred of linen cuts
Mountains into halves and
Dyes the sand crimson black,
Burning holes into copper chests.
Brackish wind, no, waves.
Tides can’t decide. They
Run away only to come back.
Dry water shimmery reflects
Bulging eyes, singed black.
Roasting jellyfishes. Die.
The air tight, sand collapse.
Suffocating reds don’t do
Bottled messages, leaving
Crumbling bones, their
Tongueless cries.
Anny Fang is a sophomore majoring in Psychology, English, and Women’s Studies. Contrary to her appearance, she likes to pursue hobbies that can only be categorized as extreme. This usually means that you may either see her chewing some book in an obscure coffee shop or bungee-jumping in a third-world country.
Three black crows hop
in the deep snowy field
behind the library
The snow
glows orange
You sit in your car
engine killed
waiting for something
Nothing falls
from the cloudless night
*
There’s a point where you come to realize that this is exactly what you wanted to
happen
Why you start hiding things under your bed
neatly in bags
labeled and dated
Snipping out pictures of faces from magazines
for the simple way they feel between your fingers
how in dropping them
they resemble falling leaves
*
Your father sleeping upright on the couch
Your father screaming at you for not taking the dog out
Your father keeping the dog’s leash in his car for years after her death
Your father dying
*
The items pile up
all humming beneath you
shaking the mattress
asking you to listen
*
He isn’t dead
He’s just stopped
speaking to you
*
Someone taps on the car window
a school friend
asking for a ride
Asking too many questions
thinking you know
about something
how things end or are supposed to—
You’re not breathing but you should
You’re not listening because your ears
are packed with snow
*
Your collection
requires more stringent organization
so you begin sorting according to taste
tonguing each face
and placing them in tupperware
to keep out air
*
The white noise of winter
your friend in the passenger seat
fogging up the windows
with her living body
her kinetic body full of blood
A crow lands amongst the others
something in his beak
They fight for it
Splash of red
against the snow
Zoe Etkin is an MFA student at CalArts. She identifies as a poet but is also interested in hybrid forms. Etkin is a recent recipient of the Beutner Award for Excellence in the Arts. Hailing from Memphis, Etkin is interested in the South, but having lived in New Mexico and California, she infuses the West into her aesthetic.
My hands feel sweaty
As I gently lift you off my lap
Your gray tail curves against my arm
And I feel as though you’re holding on
Not because you’re afraid to fall
But because you’re afraid to keep holding on
Fragile bones of starvation can be felt
Amongst the ungroomed, greasy hair
You hide away in my arms as I move on
Closer and closer towards the door
With the bell that lightly chimes
“Appointment with death”
Sounds of youthful chirps and barks
Surround us as I hold you closer
Remember when you were that small?
So playful and curious with the world
Always getting into trouble
But were always forgiven
The time when you escaped
Through a broken screen
Or when you would sneak a drink
From my glass on the floor
The countless missing hair ties
I gave up looking for
Yet you managed to win me over
With your crisp, lime green eyes
Your feminine dainty paws
That small heart shaped nose
Whiskers as white as snow
And of course, your signature meow
I will miss your calming, loud purr
Seeing your “shark fin” tail as I lay in bed
Hearing you scamper up the stairs
Petting your silky fur, rubbing your alert ears
And even finding the “present” of
A mouse at my feet
A woman calls out your name
And you look up with recognition
I pretend to not notice that these moments
Are our last together
As I kiss the top of your head
I whisper my goodbyes under my breath
And walk towards the guiding light
Wooden poets buoy above the lawn
on knees carved of earth and splintered words,
spitting fire to grave. They ember on
in true pyrrhic fashion, flutter and burn.
Women with lips like peach pits plant coals
under their tongues and lay with palms agape,
effigies in flesh. Your bones shiver and roll
into velvet sky, the living aflame.
Their faces smolder violet and rip seams
beneath their eyes to glimpse Jupiter’s pass
through watered cosmos, and the stars recede
until you become silhouette and ash.
