July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
the Forgetting Look
This late in the year she’s coughing up a bed.
With a pair of scissors and a pen
she begins to lay the flowers out.
She opens her mouth and they fall
onto the pages of her book and she’s
started to hate them.
Volume after volume full and full of petal bits;
full of stem and seed.
But she can’t bring herself to lose them
nor can she help wish them away.
No matter how deep and black her longing is
or how vicious her words want to be
when she goes to speak them
they flock from her lips and flutter down.
‘Til they are saved-
crushed in the forever there of her book
(like a bible). Always to remind her
what weakness she is capable of.
shirt sleeves.
she goes on and buffs the bone-
how sinew is gold
and ribs pristine.
her temple-legs all adorned
she’s a flaming sword away
from making her point.
I’m more than happy down here-
pouring this stuff
down the hole.
my meat is murder and
the only thing hanging
in my halls is dust and noise.
she thinks these falling apart
skins are meant for honing and
keeping clean
I just want to sin some more
and pile on the dirt-
she won’t let me do the damage
– adrian ibarra
Adrian was one of the last students to graduate from Cal State Los Angeles with a BA in Creative Writing; he took it as an omen. He wrote a poem a day, every day, in 2010. The finished project can be found at fulltimecowboy.blogspot.com.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
No thing. No dream.
No soul toward
phosphorescence.
No burn. No black.
No come. No home. No
yes, no. No do, undo.
No sky, holler, hug.
No blue. No come back
as an ant or a king. No hover
over the body until it’s time
to let go. No know.
No now.
–Whitney Hudak
Whitney Hudak holds an MFA from Bennington and lives in Brooklyn, NY.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
And when it was over
I wondered how long
i would be immersed in that warm and familiar
feeling of loss. it seeps into me.
it never loses its density
can’t dilute it
even with the tears it sheds.
the tides come and go
and the moon and sun cycle in and out
but they come back
people and things frequently don’t. they go into a dust heap
of lost stuff some where out in the midwest, perhaps, or the other side of the world
they could also be right around the corner in full living color but i don’t see them
once i lost a brother for good
he went into an other life or world from this scarred one of wounded
and wounding people.
this foggy life this hazy world
the days and nights gray and black
i lost a cat
and then a school
and a piece of jewelry i loved a cottage where
i lulled in the summer’s sun in childhood
lost that too, two more cats
and now i’ve lost a house and another among the men, who’ve left or been taken
or been banished by my self
did anyone tell you that’s what life is a procession of losses and
jumping to stones in succession. don’t slip on that mossy one
or skip the shiny one
no telling what you’ll miss
or what will get broken or scraped or burnt or blistered, scarred by the scratch of a low hanging branch
what twigs or soggy weeds you’ll pick up
between your toes or around your neck, and you’ll have to carry them with you
the rest of the way.
– Siobhan Hansen
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
Sharmila is so naïve
She can’t pick between prudence and courage
She flogs dead horses
She allows herself to be found traipsing through the tulips
She’s a slow unlearner
She loves her unteacher
She wants 364 unbirthdays
What she resists persists
She depotentiates herself, silly goose,
Until her soul screams,”STOP”
–Sonali Gurpur
Sonali Gurpur writes poetry and fiction. Her poems were recently picked for the ‘Commended’ and ‘Highly Commended’ categories of the Margaret Reid Prize for Traditional Verse, and for the city wide reading at the Austin International Poetry Festival. Her short story “See With Your Eyes Not Just Your Heart” was finalist at Glimmertrain.
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
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
–Corinna Fulton
July 2011 | back-issues, poetry
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
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.
