October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Sulk
Clouds hang low in the heat, heavy bellied animals.
Perspiring Boy Scouts plant small crisp flags squarely
beside every mailbox in Cedar Creek, vans slowly
trailing with fresh reserves. When they are done,
they shed their clothes—piles of khaki snake skins,
then jump into to the pool to splash and bob,
screaming Marco and Polo at their lung-tops.
I watch them from the adjacent baby pool, as
my daughter pours water from one measuring cup
to another. She frowns and pours a little water
on her stomach and toes, before reaching again
for a blue bucket to fill—precise in her rituals,
so much so it often pains her. My efforts
to help only vex her more. Nothing left but to
glance at my thighs underwater, which I do
casually, distractedly as if the white behemoths with
their wide groves of stretch mark were something
which roamed along the ocean floor in another age.
My mind runs then re-runs over a recent slight.
I conjure it up again, all the real and imagined
indignities, so lost in pride I don’t know how long
my daughter has been leaning against me now, pouring
water on my knees, the right then the left and right.
Left
I have heard when angels finally arrive
the tongue turns shorn stone. The air is
struck dumb, and stripped trees are helpless
to do a thing but toss and maybe dance.
Some come here for a few days then leave
with bright shells fastened to the insides of
plastic pails. They drive tired burnt bodies
inland satisfied they have seen something of
Immensity. But some of us are wintering,
still pacing the coastline, walking far off
enough from you now wearing such a bulky
coat it doesn’t matter whether it is a man
or woman who carries sorrow in their hands
pushed deep in their pockets—it doesn’t matter—
one’s age or station, when there’s so much
old weather rattling round the head.
I am staying. I am staying.
I have not yet had a word.
Before
The train in my heart gathers
speed for the mountains,
it takes one last pause between
shattered rock and mottled leaf.
The passengers inside sigh,
wanting to crush the ground—
to see what wine and word spring
up from the rich mulch-parchment.
I could tell them to take cheer.
But I know too well how light
like this can set one weeping,
turn one fool, make one sigh
for all the lovers whose limbs
still lie unknotted—caught
deep down in the dark grain
of unfathomable waters.
Chlorine
The populist had a dream the swimming pool
was filling up, more and more families arriving
in their mini-vans friends of friends getting out
with towels and goggles. The populist watched
Grannies with their skirted suits ply the shallow
end with Styrofoam rings, gently fanning the water.
The populist grimaced as babies with improper
swim diapers floated, un-innocent lilies in the arms
of their baseball hated gossiping mothers. When a little
girl dropped half her orange popsicle in the water,
a small colored iceberg trailing its dye, he screamed
The scream died in his throat before sound emerged.
The populist was not really a populist. He should
have known it. The way he polished his shoes. Cut his
grapefruit segments aft to fore and fore to aft.
The way he lamented (for days) that referencing
The Stones of Venice would have been so apropos,
bringing up an intersection that may have been
quite possibly very illuminating. When a boy
with a livid green something pulsating in and out
of his left nostril ran to do a cannonball into
the deep end, the populist woke up sweating
then looked around his empty room,
grateful and ashamed. Then he showered.
Instead of driving, he took the number eight
bus to work, planning to brush against
an especially brutish looking elbow for penance.
Jenn Blair has been published in Copper Nickel, Kestrel, the Tulane Review, New South Review, Rattle, Blood Orange Review, and Santa Fe Review among others.
October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Toast to the Aftermath
Our angels have traded their binoculars for krugerrands.
They send their regrets along with brochures from islands where the dollar
still buys luck.
Our keepsakes packed in knapsacks, we recite conspiracy theories by heart,
migrating under the cover of trees.
Collect warnings like family recipes and hide them in the grass.
Dilute panic with apathy. Shake. Then serve the mix on ice.
Before global mayhem, a morass of days must be endured.
Work: winding the time around your hands like an endless yarn.
Try to stay alert.
The last ships departing will look like toys through the haze.
These signs will prepare you for cataclysms
for which you cannot prepare.
Another round, please, for the uncertainties that now nag no more
than a foaming fizz stings the tongue.
Watchers
Years ago
they cut down
the dead oak
I had watched from my window
to build a house
over there.
So full of crows then,
their dark complacency
from rotting branches,
their blue-black
staring, endless, at me,
the oak’s branch tips
extending upward like fingers
of a child reaching
for comfort or answers,
the oily crows
waiting for something
from me.
Years,
and still they watch
from a void over there,
dead oak gone,
a blank sky with its ghostly
imprint smeared
blue and gray,
a child reaching her hand upward
waiting for permission to tell
her awful secret.
Georgia Kreiger lives in Western Maryland, where she teaches literature and creative writing. Her poems have appeared in Earth’s Daughters The 2River View, poemmemoirstory, The Orange Room Review, Literal Latté, Poet Lore, Sow’s Ear Poetry Review, Outerbridge, Backbone Mountain Review and others.
October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
by Elaina Perpelitt
The nauseous breath of change blows bravely
into my warring heart, saying gravely
I have a greater calling
outside my parents’ house where the garden
dies annually, a sickly warden
of youth, ever stalling.
I pray to a different God today
than yesterday, a funeral away.
This God sends me spinning
into adulthood with a Dev’lish wink.
Not ready, I bend over the kitchen sink
a child, a coward, a beginning,
seeing nothing but distorted distortion;
potential fleshing out of proportion.
But then!
I see a vision perfected.
One day
I’ll come back with mask of sagging skin,
stomach settled, and I’ll see the garden
Die and be resurrected.
Elaina Perpelitt is a student at Chapman University. When she’s not writing film and play scripts, she’s writing poetry and novels.
October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Dream Disease
You be the building and I’ll be the fire.
She’ll be the one on the funeral pyre.
All night and day I will dance around you
and climb you, as I try to escape these
twirling images. At the moment I no longer
want to deal with these words that drip
like blood, each one a little city etched
with a smoky memory or two of something
mildly to severely traumatic. Sometimes I
just don’t want to wake up to a face, I want
to wake up to birds chirping and being blown up
by shotguns and songs about big black rivers, a
paisley haze. Every day I grow more tired of
your tiredness, of your wavering abjection, of
the way you and your country try to suppress it all
with drugs, staving off dreams like they are disease.
Snowy Hell
Sorry, I fell into a pit of flowers
and could not climb out for a while
because the stems kept breaking
and the petals started rotting
and I got sick from the smell.
Later I woke up on a cold California
beach, dragged out by someone who cleaned
me up with bleach, dragged out by someone
who had arms enough to reach into my
jagged heart that’s space deep.
Here I am I guess, people tell me I’m pretty
but I suffer from an ugly private paralysis.
Here I am I guess. Please give me your best.
Sorry, I fell into a pit of flowers,
I started playing solitaire, got distracted
for hours. And then the stems kept breaking
and the flowers started rotting and I got sick
from the smell, and then I woke up on a beach;
someone had dragged me out of that snowy hell.
Drea Jane Kato was born in the great state of California and was raised Buddhist by a gypsy-like artist mother and a Japanese farmer who currently grows pineapples in Hawaii. She is a Capricorn, Dragon, INTJ, HSP, Atheist, singer/songwriter, abstract painter/artist, iPhone photographer who likes yoga, fasting, and the beach. She has been published in magazines such as The Blue Jew Yorker, My Favorite Bullet, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Beat, Ditch, Pomegranate, ReadThis Magazine, Otis Nebula, and Alternativereel.
October 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Below the snow-pack, under the flat tangle
of matted grass, gently squirming beneath
the force-field of the frost line
live les vers de terre, their cryptic trails
umbilically twisting toward the winter crust.
I’d like to think that it’s summer Down Under,
Worms on holiday from noxious flocks
and the deadly tread of feet.
And when Spring, sensed like a womb-heard
heartbeat, melts the inhibitions and ignites
the slick ambitions of The Few, The Strong,
The Rebel-Worms, to take a slide on the wild side,
up, where the world is dry and frightful;
will I find their wriggling courage to say
to the flowers and the giants,
“Eat my dust!”?
Constance Kramer is a microbiologist by training, but explores the visible and invisible world with poetry and short fiction, also. She resides in Tallmadge, OH.
