January 2015 | back-issues, poetry
My grandfather snapped
fish spines off the coast of
Tel Aviv. Slick carcasses
slipping through his coltish
grip as though they were still alive
and thrumming, kicking in the Adriatic.
Latent instincts for survival sparking through
the only dormant muscles in the desert.
Stripped to his tawny chest he would wade
knee-deep in the algae & water pooling
under the orange groves, catch the rainfall
of citrus in skyward arms.
His soles thickened to leather from
skittering across the baking streets,
parched & shriveled like denied lips.
In the gravel he gathered you,
palms coarse, desiccated, groping
for your final strains. You escape
in relieved exhalations, lifting from
the earth at intervals wider than
floodgates.
Saba tugged Shoshana’s umber
plait, twined it around his enchanter’s
finger. They were twelve when they met—
she, staggering in from Jerusalem, caked
in Masada’s dust. Eighteen when they
holstered guns & swallowed smoke.
I do not know this place, embedded
as it is with the bodies of my ancestors
& their enemies, dyed in blood hot,
livid from the midst of battle. I scrawled
my prayers once on notepad paper
& twisted it within the crevices of the
Wailing Wall but can’t remember its contents
or whether it rests there still, atrophying.
I do not know this place, though I
am derived from its crumbling dirt
as my classmates do not know my
name was snatched from a city
on the West Bank, not from Plath poems
& air spirits, though sometimes I wish
that were the case.
I will not tell them.
Mother caresses my chin to tell me
I am my name—Ariel, the Lion.
Yet my grandparents’ steps
still thump in my ears, the bombs
will always shudder and rattle
my white-washed bones. I dart
back into my burrow, and I know
their smoke lingers.
by Ariella Carmell
Ariella Carmell is a senior at Marlborough School in California, where she is Editor-in-Chief of the literary magazine and Head Copy Editor of the newspaper. A Foyle Commended Poet of the Year and a recipient of Scholastic Art & Writing Awards, she has work published or forthcoming in Cadaverine, Crack the Spine, Vademecum, Crashtest, Eunoia Review, and Canvas Literary Journal, among others. She also blogs for The Adroit Journal about the intersection of film and literature. Come next fall, she will attend the University of Chicago.
January 2015 | back-issues, poetry
wrapped in headscarves and blankets
you wait on your wooden rocking chair
sky black with the stars falling
around you like leaves of autumn
for it is that season where change
is inevitable and the air carries cold
and new riches to your nose and mouth
with dawn approaching as fast as it does
you aren’t sure which birds speak first
though a cacophony sets your spine
more erect in that sitting position
so you begin to release yourself against
the covers you’ve brought and suddenly
your body shivers with the first sight
breaking the horizon at eye level
a shriek of color sends vibrations
through your ears and down to your toes
with the birds wailing and the sky brazened
like you’ve never before felt
so that lake ice before you begins to melt
and the release of methane shoots
in all directions to mirror that light
so you unfasten your layers to the ground
for our sun’s enduring warmth
by Andrew Gavin
Andrew Garvin completed his undergraduate degree in International Relations from the University of Southern California. He now lives in Wilmington, North Carolina taking Creative Writing at the University of North Carolina Wilmington.
January 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Jacuzzis are holy.
Garage door openers are holy.
Back-up cameras and recycle bins—all holy.
Putting the red flag up on the mailbox, waving at the elderly
getting my toes wet with dew—holy, holy, holy.
Keeping my eyelids open and trying to sleep like fish,
signing my name with less letters and more scribbles,
counting crows feet, counting yellow toenails,
counting haircuts, counting plucked whiskers,
counting constantly.
Bookshelves are holy.
Missing dust covers are holy,
magicians and black and white T.V. shows,
Penn Jillette theories and Andy Griffith justice,
Uncle Walt songs and Ginsberg poems—holy, holy, holy.
Drinking beer before noon, drinking liquor right after,
drinking it warm (or on ice) with a friend (or not).
Waking up drunk, waking up sober,
waking up tired, waking up hungry,
waking—always holy.
Table wine is holy.
Candle sticks are holy,
dishwashers and cloth napkins,
the folk art cricket made from wire and a railroad nail,
rock salt from the salt flats in a salt cellar—holy, holy, holy.
Opening an empty cedar chest to still moths and crumbs,
staring at stretched cobwebs immersed in the sun,
swallowing nests, swallowing nectar,
swallowing chimes, swallowing saliva,
swallows—always holy.
Self-portraits are holy.
Ceramic urns also are holy.
Tape recorders and keyboards,
drawing pads and gold-plated ball-point pens,
calligraphy and stipple—holy, holy, holy.
Unfolding a letter, unfolding a chair, unfolding
into downward dog, from child’s pose, into corpse pose.
Picking apricots, picking green grapes,
picking out a husband, a shower curtain,
selection—always holy.
Twist-off caps, dresser drawers, remote controls,
carpeted stairs, revolving doors, product recalls,
keycodes, passwords,
restaurant reservations,
last-minute invitations,
cell phones, voice recognition,
land minds, and secrets—holy,
holy word, holy water, holy book,
holy soap boxes, bathtubs, soap dishes—holy,
holy drains and draining, empty.
—originally published by Chagrin River Review online journal, Lakeland Community College, Fall 2013. Online.
by Trish Hopkinson
Trish Hopkinson has always loved words—in fact, her mother tells everyone she was born with a pen in her hand. She has two chapbooks Emissions and Pieced Into Treetops and has been published in several anthologies and journals, including The Found Poetry Review, Chagrin River Review, and Reconnaissance Magazine. She is a project manager by profession and resides in Utah with her handsome husband and their two outstanding children. You can follow her poetry adventures at trishhopkinson.com or on her Facebook page.
January 2015 | back-issues, poetry
ju·ve·nes·cence ˌjo͞ovəˈnesəns/noun: juvenescence
The state or period of being young.
Hours unrequited in coils round the orb
Fled skins ride slip shod over freshly mown lawns
A hiccup, a sneeze, a tongue clipped by the shut door
Beyond reach of recovery in the suburban predawn
Bottle fed hours a morning worm tried down throats
Hands and often mouths washed out with soap
Saturday morning, rug burns, quest for the lost remote
Fatherless but not unwilling to cope
Nestling the soft belly asleep in the garden weeds
Sprung from the rain dark soil in beds
Wild and abundant fury of split seeds
To roost and rabble rouse to apprehend
Inspires ancient capillaries to shine out blue
Or purple abloom with new bruises
by Tina Garvin
Tina is currently completing her BFA at the Illinois Institute of Art-Chicago. Her poetry has most recently been published in Blueline Literary Journal and Shoe Music Press.
January 2015 | back-issues, poetry
and the streets are running out
with people and rickshaws, motorbikes (there,
four adults on a single cycle), water buffalo
stomping through traffic,
tilting their chins in response
to horns begging them to move.
The traffic slips ahead,
crawling over itself like snakes in a pit,
falters, stops to ruminate, begins again.
And a child knocks
on the window, shines her red teeth,
seeks money to buy water,
or for the man who owns her.
He’s out there, somewhere. Everything kicks
again, we move through the storm of dust.
A man leaps into a moving bus,
his plastic sandal falls
and tumbles to die upon the street. The bus keeps on,
traffic stops.
another shoe flies
from the bus door, expelled as from a kick,
either angry, resigned, or neither.
by Kevin Eldridge
Kevin recently graduated with an MFA from Indiana University and works as an English and SAT tutor.
October 2014 | back-issues, poetry
miss xanax
(originally published in The Battered Suitcase Nov. ’08)
She says
“you don’t have to watch”
As she gets things ready
Cellophane wrapper from a cigarette pack
A lighter
A cut straw
The pills
She says
“you don’t have to watch
But I need to do this”
Takes the pills
Places them on the glass top table
Places the cellophane wrapper over them
Slides the lighter in slight crunches
The pale pink pills turn to dust
She says
“you’re not going to cry are you?”
She takes an ID in which she’s smiling
Says she’s an organ donor
But she won’t give me her heart
The card cuts lines
Leaves trails of thin dust behind
Dirty honey hair hangs down to the glass
the straw jerks moving slow then fast
She says
“you’re not going to cry are you?”
I lie to her for the first time
that legendary divorce
(originally published in E2K July 2004)
summer in america
the land of milk and
honey not tonight
I have a headache
and I hate you
and I can’t put it into words
but one small push
like kids on a swing
thinking that they can touch the sky and I
might kill you
for making me forget
what love is
or is supposed to be
or that I even want it
anne frank, homecoming queen
(originally published in Skyline Magazine Winter 06/07)
now that we’re here
in the place we fear the most
lacking the voice
to ever call this home
we’re whispers in the mouth of the door
we hide inside the walls
they’re coming in…
I’ll hold your hand
and the world
the world is a photograph
and the world
the world is under glass
and she knows where nothing is
the broken geometry of her star
and we know where nothing is
it rips the hearts from greeting cards
(we’ll use the words they waste
as long as we have them)
and the world
the world is a photograph
and the world
the world is under glass
we hide inside the walls
they’re coming in…
I’ll hold your hand
we’re butterflies and the door is ajar
louisa
(originally published in The Storyteller Oct/Nov/Dec 2005)
I bet you’re beautiful
before the mirror wakes up
before the sun fills its silver cup
what do you have up your sleeve
besides a bruise?
where would you be if you could choose?
and the hands move
mechanically
to apply make-up and remove sleep
and eyeshadow implies
some light from inside
and something in it’s way
(the days start like cars
in this parking lot life
we cough and crawl off
towards some distant light
and the cold smoke just hangs in the air
daring anyone half awake to attempt to care)
what do you have up your sleeve
but a bruise
baby where would you be if you could choose?
I bet you’re beautiful
before the mirror wakes up
by Joe Quinn
Joe Quinn is a 34 year old American Poet. He has been published 60+ times in over 30 publications around the world. His poetry collections are available to purchase for $10 at lulu.com/spotlight/welcomehomeironlung and he can be followed at @joequinnpoetry on twitter or at facebook.com/joequinnpoetry
