April 2013 | back-issues, poetry
The truth? I couldn’t wait to split. Picture
a birdcage strung up on baroque unwritten codes
— like living in a police state, I told the serpent
when we ducked out for a cigarette
one night near the end, just before it all
blew to smithereens, just before my lewdness
cracked the perfect and perfectly boring landscape
(a top-ten “Places to See Before You Die”)
mapped in majolica on the tiled floor of Anacapri:
a paradise of rivers and islands, flowers and fish,
and all His weird experiments (zebras, giraffes).
I was incidental there, a thorn in someone’s side.
In the far corner — you have to lean in close
— the exiled Crown of Creation and I, his rib-bone,
trying to cover ourselves with ferns and fronds.
Observe how my long hair hides my smile.
Wouldn’t smoking be divine after sex?
the serpent asked me once. What’s that? I said.
by Jo Ann Baldinger
Jo Ann Baldinger lives in Portland, Oregon, where she writes poems, practices yoga, and tries to be patient. Her poems have appeared in Cirque, Verdad, Blue Mesa, Tsunami, and Onthebus.
April 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Two strangers fuck you into existence.
Then they tell you they love you.
They tell you they love you and then some.
“Weedee doodee doodee deee.”
“Pee on the potty.”
“Learn your tables of arithmetic.”
“Clean up your room.”
“How much pain I suffered putting you into this world!”
“Don’t get that girl pregnant.”
“Do you think that car runs on thin air?”
“Don’t become like your father!”
“Don’t listen to your mother!”
“When will you get a decent job?”
“Are you working on my grandchildren yet?”
“Why don’t you show some respect?”
“Is that why I worked my ass off for you?”
“You have it so easy. When I was your age…”
Blah, blah, blah.
You watch them all this time.
They claim they know you.
You wonder who they are.
Then they die.
Then you do.
by Nolan Keating
April 2013 | back-issues, poetry
‘cause you planned to study law. And I may
have written this already: Habeus
Corpus in some other journal or book.
Latin got me through med school—I’d just look
in Stedman’s Dictionary—ah, corpus,
corpse, a body, just like yours, only, say,
a little stiffer, with perhaps, a bit
of an associated odor. But
I don’t smell so good. You’re the one whose nose
knows the bell’s tolling. Mine couldn’t tell whose
a flower and whose a. . .All right, what
did make you leave? Was it the kitty lit-
ter in the basement? The moldy sponges
in the sink? Oh, your constitution, left.
by Kelley Jean White
Kelley’s writing has been widely published since 2000 in journals including Exquisite Corpse, Friends Journal, Nimrod, Poet Lore, Rattle, the Journal of the American Medical Association and in a number of chapbooks and full-length collections, most recently Toxic Environment from Boston Poet Press, Two Birds in Flame, poems related to the Shaker Community at Canterbury, NH, from Beech River Books, and “In Memory of the Body Donors,” Covert Press. She have received several honors, including a 2008 grant for poetry from the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts.
April 2013 | back-issues, poetry
One of the beasts
Of my existence
Has been cowardice
A disease
I consider it as such
Though it can be cured
But the procedure
Can be too much
For the man inflicted
And the necessary
Moves to make
To rise atop
Higher than you have ever stood
And the changes
Needed being made
The mirror can appear
As a shallow grave
But burying yourself into it
May be the only way
And face the face
That has continually ran astray
From the moments
Where you were needed most
By the people who have given you
Silos of love
And vast fields of trust
So I am finished
With this curse I have set
Upon myself
This will all be undone
And I will stand taller
Then any mountain to ascend
I am the answer
To bringing this way of life
To a fatal end
Face to face
I stare into my eyes
And strive for forgiveness
To myself
And all the lies
The reasons I have justified
To get fast on my feet
And run and hide
The man I see
Knows just what he has done
And will do whatever is possible
To keep all of that
In my rearview
Having faith that the road ahead
Drives a man who stands
And never lets this coward
Act in the same way again
by Justin Peterson
April 2013 | back-issues, poetry
The sleeping passenger feels cold—shivers to wake, at dawn—discovering light coming in through the window—cool light at dawn. Another sleeping passenger feels cold—jerks to wake at the same time, at dawn—discovering light coming in through the window—cool light at dawn.
Both passengers are awake now, and realize they are looking at each other sitting across from one another at dawn.
Two passengers wake up and realize they are looking at each other, sitting across from one another at dawn—February eighth, the day before a giant storm two passengers find themselves awake on a train, in the wee hours of the morning.
The passenger turns his head to the side facing the window, and discovering light coming in through the window, yawns. The other passenger turns his head to the side facing the window, and discovering light coming in through the window, hears the other passenger yawn. The passenger turns back to face forward. The other passenger turns back to face forward.
Both passengers are awake now, and realize they are looking at each other, sitting across from one another anxious to start a conversation, at dawn—as light is coming in through the window—cool light at dawn.
by Denise Kinsley
Denise Kinsley received her B.A. in Arts and Letters and is currently an MFA candidate at the Jack Kerouac School. She has written a book of poetry that was published in 2009 (under her nom de plume) and is working on a collection of short stories. Denise has written grants for several non-profit theatre companies and most recently won an award from The National Endowment for the Arts. She has been involved with theater companies in New York, Portland and San Diego. She currently lives along the coast of southern California.
April 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Feel what rhymes between us without words:
a texture, a smell, a movement that acts,
infuses more than show and tell. Body language
the most basic, the most primal, the most real.
This is necessity. We must be able to go on
when everyone, everything, when the world, is
simply deaf and mute. Communication exists
beyond print, beyond the repetitive sounds of
ideas, beyond rhetorical music, beyond the audio
of complexly-crass civilized thought. We have
language and verbal expression to make us feel better,
feel like we are making our mark on time, the small
seconds left of it, the treacherous and monotonous
abundance of it; but when all is over one last
thing, and it only, should flash in our brains:
a smile, the expressive smile of life lived.
by Nathan Dey Johnston
Nathan Dey Johnston lives in Kokomo, Indiana. He has contributed poems to From the Well House and Smile, Hon, You’re in Baltimore!
