April 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Hell is a
cold place
where we
stand in a line
with strangers,
awaiting an
unknown fate.
You hold my
hands but
can never warm them,
and tell me a
slew of
grotesque true
stories, drenched
in blood —
Bodies hurtled
through air,
death by blunt
force trauma.
I plead with you
to stop.
I don’t want
to hear.
Around us,
faces veiled
in red shadows
chant,
“Kiss, Kiss, Kiss!”
by Emilia Koka
Emilia lives in Massachusetts with her family. She is a full-time Biology student by day and guitar-playing, poetry-reading enthusiast by night. This is her first publication.
April 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Burning Leaves
for Marianne Leppmann, at 90, 1989
The soul yearns outward
the body turns to salt, this slow pillar-making
punishment enough for looking back.
How release the ready heart?
Images flood the night
a flush of false dawn, breath of spring
beat of memory like birdwing, a letter in his hands,
“From an admirer, someone in love with you…”
(Already taken by the finest of them all,
you’re pleased he knows another thinks you
finest of them all)
New biographies unbury your oldest friends:
“girlish letters no one’s business”
“a man’s confessions of unmanly need”—
this, you will not allow. Each night, by candlelight,
you unrecord the history of a love
that’s only yours, not time’s
nor progeny’s
October, the smell of burning leaves—
letters unfolded give off his scent
fine German script imprints the air
black flakes breathe to ash
I protest—
“Maybe burn only the love letters?”
“They are all love letters.”
You have not looked shy like this since he was alive.
In 1940, you dreamed the black, devouring cloud, Europe
in flames. Joachim, the engineer, welcomed by the Turks,
traveled ahead; you, the doctor, followed with the children
Survivors. Stunned, as the pages turned.
Four score years along, once more he travelled out ahead,
destination: no known country.
Survivor, you wear his absence like a presence, trust
he waits for you, a place prepared
This time, you travel light—
grow lighter still, this slow and careful way,
each day one letter gone
I remember how the smell of burning leaves
in childhood carried the scent of winter;
it was how we prepared—a blaze, a drifting
plume of smoke,
a Festival dance—
A young girl runs across the floor
to meet her love
by Catharine Lucas
Runaway
(for my son at 16)
A white string zips along my path
I clutch at grass and gravel—too late!
someone’s yellow kite hops the shoreline
jonquil gone crazy
staggers like a sunny drunk
out into low rushing fog,
dips, water bound—
—but no!
a gust tosses it higher to where another wind
plays it up into clear blue
I console myself—
Who knows how much of sea
how many birds and heaving whales
it will salute before its certain death?
I was always taught that kites are programmed
to plummet when the string is lost, that safe
flight depends on one who stands
rooted, pays out the line, winds it home
But this aerodynamically impossible kite
suggests a new world order:
some days, some winds
some kites unanchored soar
by Catharine Lucas
Catherine Lucas’ creative writing will appear or is forthcoming in Zone 3, Digital Paper (University of California, Berkeley), Magazine (San Francisco State University), and Asilomar Poets, 1974-1980 (Equinox Press). Her academic writing is published under the name Catharine Lucas Keech. Catherine has taught undergraduate writers, graduates in composition studies, and teachers of writing. She studied poetry at UC Berkeley in the seventies with Josephine Miles, and in the eighties at Mills College, Oakland, CA with Rosalie Moore. She participates year-round in a writing group with several published authors and recently attended a master class at Hedgebrook Writers Retreat.
January 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Would you look at my beautiful
Skeleton broken in two, twice
The shell of a skeleton in a mirror?
You who cannot recognize the you
In me underneath my skeleton mirror,
The belly I am no longer approved in.
Swallow familiar shadows- not seen
Before my eyes; look down as your sex
Swallows me entirely, leaving me whole.
Look hard to see the secret hidden stars
When you find darkness in a shadow mirror,
Mirrored by twice the shell of a skeleton.
by Paige Simkins
Paige is a poet who lives with her dog, Sir Simon, in Tampa, Florida. She holds a Bachelor degree in English (Creative Writing) and a Master’s degree in Library and Information Science. She works as a Public Librarian and is very passionate about poetry, libraries, VW Beetles, and visual art.
January 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Question mark meanders
like a curl of smoke ascending heavenward,
a supple supplicant, innocent yet insistent,
only to cool, drift sideways,
bend back under itself–
expectant and intrusive
its round, ripe belly
belies the truth
of what it holds–
then descending,
a dagger
ready
to
dig
in
deep
*
It was a simple question.
Is this your son’s coat?
But I answered an unasked question–
twisted, stained, bloody and ripped raw–
unmasking my horror and grief.
*
Years later, they stated it simply,
Joseph is still alive.
Standing among his gifts of wagons
and donkeys and food and riches
I added two words–My son–
forming a question that punctuated their tacit deceit–
a jagged gash
puncturing the tender trust between us.
by Alan Toltzis
Alan Toltzis is a strategic marketing consultant living in the Philadelphia area. One of his poems was published in Focus Midwest. He is writing a long series of poems that uses the Torah as a starting place.
January 2015 | back-issues, poetry
The flame on the candle wick sways
The ghost has entered the room
and he looks exactly
like me when I was a child
by Ashlie Allen
Ashlie Allen writes fiction and poetry. Her work has been published in The Jet Fuel, The Screech Owl, The Crab Fat Literary Magazine, The East Coast Literary Review, The Squawk Back, Conclave: A Journal of Character and others. Besides writing, she has plans to become photographer.
January 2015 | back-issues, poetry
My Detox Distilled
Life radicalized,
into roots.
But fear loomed like
a stitched whale song.
Laying in the fetal position
wrapped in the arms of solitude,
worse than trapped, no bird songs—
under the cover of a static quilt,
with imprisoned hushed mind voices
beneath and their spun spiraling eyes,
whispers that cycle like lightning
along the trails, bolting down
around Remorse Passage, surging across Regret Line,
plowing straight into Resentment Way,
silent electronic surges boom,
amplified by the hollowed inner walls.
A steel wheelbarrow dumps pile after
pile of hot steamy hopelessness
into the echoing abyss, packing it tight
like a trunk, until it overflows.
Then light cuts down the stock,
and carries the whole heap—
back to the radical,
a mere pretext
without context
masquerading
in extremes.
Wayward Abolition
Dark spread across the land
in strange westward blows,
from the mouth of a Titan.
Black blanketed the forest,
the gray squirrels hid in trees,
the rabbits to their burrows.
An egg was left by a mother
in the middle of the forest’s
floor. Silent guilt oozed from
the egg toward its neglector,
suffocating her to death.
Night set in for the long hall,
weighing down the trees,
and the bushes longed to see
the sun dancing around the earth
with free food like Jesus.
The once pleased owl
grew tired of the perpetual
blackness, became depressed
as he stared out at the sky,
missing the absence of difference.
And the moon no longer shone,
it slinked back into the abyss.
The owl stopped hooting
and started to lose its feathers.
by S. Babin
S. Babin holds a BA in English Literature from the Ohio State University, and a JD from the University of Pennsylvania Law School. He lives with his family, and works in Columbus, Ohio. His work will be forthcoming in The Wayfarer; Spark: A Creative Anthology; Bop Dead City; Cactus Heart; Star 82 Review; and many more.
