James Thomas

January 2014 | back-issues, poetry

Requiem for an Empire

“Always, always you recede through the evenings
toward the twilight erasing statues.”
          —”Clenched Soul,” Pablo Neruda

I remember you with my soul clenched,

realizing the ground has given way.

This façade crumbles, a life envisioned

becomes a ruin before its construction—

our vast empire founded on untruth and decay.

I remember you with my mind blockaded,

every exit patrolled by the ghost of us.

Trapped within this hostile land

I hide in the shadows of monuments

dedicated to a god that no longer exists.

I remember you with my body broken,

blood that would have spilled for you

wasted on barren earth, boiling in the heat

of the sun that once polished your face,

but now blisters my eyes as I remember.

As I gaze upon our remnants,

sand claiming what was once ours,

I recall those earth-ending words—

they caught like bones in your throat,

until they lurched out, laying waste.

I stand here, in remembrance of our empire,

devastation ruling my heart, your name

treading the edge of my tongue

as I force myself to stone, yet crack.

I am all that has survived—

A crumbling statue at the center of nothing.

by James Thomas

Reconciliation

They wake despite themselves,

backs still turned, each spine an abatis against intruders.

First-sleep is broken by the witching

time of night; Circadian servants rebel against their ruler.

Neither remembers why they’d fought,

or is certain that they ever had, confounded by dreams.

Wheel and pinion turn in unison:

mechanical precision, oneiric delirium.

Wordless mouths blindly advance,

mashing together with  sacramental stress.

Hands pass over skin like braille

their serpentine bodies  in blissful anguish.

Order’s simulacrum born

of bedlam: zealots under goose-down.

They offer sacrifices

to each other, prayers, seeds.

Unburdened and disarmed,

they end, captivated, entangled,

And drift

to sleep—their spirits cleansed, their flesh unclean.

by James Thomas

Post-Mortem

I dream of a corpse lying before me—

rigid and staring, eyes fogged over,

mouth tightened to a grin—

a warm gesture from my dead-ringer.

I smile back at this cold me, my knife

sliding down his chest like a lover’s

hand, lustful precision arousing flesh

to reveal its taunting secrets.

He opens up to me—a host of maladies

malign my inquiries—each adamant

about their role in my friend’s demise.

So I ask my corpse, “what killed us?”

His grin is less welcoming now, ribcage

glistening in fluorescent light, I dig

for answers. My knife nicks his liver,

like an eagle’s beak, over and over.

In the silent room I hear my own heart

beating back the stillness of death.

For an instant, it seems his heart beats

in time with mine, but no. I continue.

I grasp his heart, press it in unison

with my own—a last-ditch effort

of a  man wishing to become

Lazarus, but my prayer falls unheard.

I set my tools aside.

I glance back at my pale face—the eternal

grin mocking my  fear,

happier dead than I will ever be.

by James Thomas

James Thomas is a Senior at the University of North Texas studying Creative Writing.

Braid

January 2014 | back-issues, poetry

She mumbles into tubes

and silver scissor.

They cut

her hair:

on the floor old dull needles.

I think of my mother

braiding my hair

half-asleep, her fingers weaving

in the dark.

Above the floor are

a mother’s fingers moving in and

out of the silver hair. The nurse sweeps

it into a bucket, the hand’s ghost,

the girl’s hair, their endless

inexorable braid.

by Brittany N. Jaekel

Brittany is currently studying communication disorders at the University of Wisconsin-Madison, and hopes to pursue a PhD in the field. She graduated with a dual degree in creative writing and psychology from Northwestern University in 2011, and writes poetry when she has a moment to spare.

If there was a new way to dance

January 2014 | back-issues, poetry

If there was a new way to dance, I hope

the first step is to give your last dollar

to a stranger.  That you firmly hold

your partner’s hands and hips

while talking softly in the shower.

Instead of tapping your feet,

you’d pray for someone who isn’t eating enough.

You wouldn’t learn to breakdance, pop-and-lock, twerk:

but you’d savor a fresh cup of green tea and honey,

get sand beneath your toes while practicing

handstands on the beach, and take time for naps.

A new kind of dance, where there are no missteps

because there is no wrong way

to laugh heartily at a good joke,

kiss lovingly in a downpour after missing a train,

or watch a child learn to read.

In this dance, the music never stops

because cats don’t stop purring,

the wind will always blow over the grass,

while mothers coo at their babes, brothers argue

over who gets to be which Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle

as sisters joyfully sigh. 

And in this new dance, no one is sitting.  Everyone dances.

Every young man too shy to move

is greeted by a pretty smile.

Every elderly couple who thinks that

their dancing days are long behind them

find themselves singing while making

cranberry sauce for Thanksgiving with perfect rhythm.

And every girl who is timid

because they’ve danced with boys who have stepped on their toes

will find someone to write poetry with on planes.

by Max Henderson

Max Henderson is a doctoral student in physics at Drexel University. Originally from Coatesville, Pennsylvania, he researches neural networks and quantum computation when he’s not too busy watching Adventure Time. His poems are about making mistakes while drinking a good, dark beer. He has been published online in Black Heart Magazine, Crack The Spine, the Ampersand Review, and Citizen Brooklyn, and has work in Crack The Spine’s Spring 2013 Anthology.