July 2024 | poetry
In youth we dawdle over flesh in the water,
primed for our prime like an irreducible number.
Reaping dividends from Arctic melt, we look
to the parity of starlight and the perennial
rotation of ground-level fuel. Nefarious grains
grow row upon row on a landscape peppered
with invention. Noteworthy wings slip
echolocation. What do the bees stipulate, or
the last wolverine unbound from a glacier?
The hairline-fractured earth revises who and what exists.
Through rainout and burnout, animation erodes.
In senescence we dally with locked vertebrae. We seek
a strawberry asylum in which to nibble light transformed
into substance. We too are substance. Verifiably tasty.
Alan Elyshevitz
Alan Elyshevitz is the author of a collection of stories, The Widows and Orphans Fund (SFA Press), a poetry collection, Generous Peril (Cyberwit), and five poetry chapbooks, most recently Approximate Sonnets (Orchard Street). Winner of the James Hearst Poetry Prize from North American Review, he is a two-time recipient of a fellowship in fiction writing from the Pennsylvania Council on the Arts.
July 2024 | poetry
Three First Grade Boys on the Titanic
Three boys squat
in the Book Corner
looking down
at the open heart of history.
One boy exclaims:
I wish I was on the Titanic.
Another replies with logic:
You can’t be on it.
A third who knows about attention
and the need to make an impact
to be noticed, to exist, states:
I was on the Titanic. I was. I was.
The two other boys don’t respond,
just keeping looking down at the picture
of the ship being sundered, closing
around the book like a prayer,
while the third, silently ousted,
wonders if his lie was in fact a kind of truth.
A Steiner Piano Shop
There’s a Steiner Piano Shop in Lake Oswego now.
The millionaires who wow the lake in record numbers,
in palaces policed by cameras, scraped and landscaped
by immigrant workers, stocked with pouty power boats
and gleaming Teslas can now insist their children clatter
through Mozart whilst they plan weekend wake-surfing
on the lake, too dirty to swim in, and family trips
to the Caribbean, second homes, thanking God
there’s no homeless camps and fentanyl addiction
in their downtown. Close the gate, security cameras on,
kids all tucked up with the latest fairy tale mirrors
while the dog roams its empty, echoing territory.
Matthew James Friday
Matthew James Friday is a British-born writer and teacher. He has published many poems in the US and international journals. His first chapbook, The Residents, will be published by Finishing Line Press in the summer of 2024. He has published numerous micro-chapbooks with the Origami Poems Project. Matthew is a Pushcart Prize-nominated poet. Visit his website at http://matthewfriday.weebly.com
July 2024 | poetry
My kid won’t go to school
anymore.
Morning finds her buried
in her sleep,
her father at her door
pleading.
We were violent at first,
me throwing off her covers, she
kicking.
She bit me once.
Now we have a pattern,
I beg
a short time through
her hollow door.
She clings to silence
til I’m gone.
She knows she’s wrong,
hates herself.
Retreating, I know
she’s right.
We scroll the same scenes
all day.
Presidents laughing
onstage
over bombs for Israel.
Yesterday
in Gaza, a food line
was shot to pieces.
Moms and kids.
And here?
A students crack,
C students
are doomed.
Last spring a classmate
jumped off,
a senior OD’d
this fall.
My brother’s kids were
locked down
last year while a classmate
shot
his homeroom.
The usual.
My daughter says she’s bored
by nature.
Waterfalls, canyons,
oceans.
Last year Mount Rainier,
she wants to
go back to the car
and sleep.
No longer sublime,
the world
holds no secrets.
Not even the laws that
govern us.
Only the dumb persistence
of atoms.
We understand they’re
in the Tube,
these kids. The Blitz above.
We adults
are afraid, our talk
dull bluster
in the dark. The kids
have seen this.
Life is a thing that wants
them dead.
Later I will bring
her lunch.
James Caton
James Caton is an emerging author whose work has appeared or is forthcoming in Impossible Task, Arboreal, La Piccioletta Barca, and The MacGuffin. He is completing a book of poems, Nakba and Other Poems. He lives in Ann Arbor.
