July 2014 | back-issues, poetry
webbed, goose-white
nut-broadened bird.
He could green-water
scum-break and wet-
feather-waddle from the shallows.
He stumbled through lives, wives,
fragrance and faux pas,
yet by boat or bank, under bridge,
elegant he was, easy
legged, otter-elan,
loafing, lollygagging
log-light, drifting
towards senility
with a watery grace.
Once he challenged the current
near Dubuque and came across
a quarter-mile downstream,
and once he pushed it north
against the choppy grind,
kissed the lock’s locked door
and felt the wild whiskers
of a big-bellied cat
checking his calves for lunch
and with dawdle-not
fear kicking his feet
like a steamboat’s paddle
went south and never returned.
Jeff Burt
Jeff Burt works in manufacturing. He has work in Rhino, Nature Writing, Windfall, and Thrice Fiction, and forthcoming in Mobius and Storm Cellar.
July 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Here’s to staying up late
and watching Pulp Fiction
instead of staying up late
because your mind is cycling with stress.
Here’s to eating the best
oven pizza you’ve ever had
after days of not being able
to keep food down.
Here’s to harsh cigarettes
and a longneck lighter
on a metal table
while winds howl at the moon.
It’s talking about it
so you don’t need to drink about it.
Knowing and being known is
saying “fuck” instead of pretend smiling.
It’s being touched without jumping,
and unbraiding and fading
with heavy eyelids
that can safely close.
It’s not about waking up,
it’s about falling back asleep
after a glance to ensure
not everyone disappears.
Hearing one person say,
“You aren’t as dark as I thought.”
Hearing another person say
that they pray for you
and hearing yourself say;
“I’m not a whore.”
Here’s to all that.
That’s what today is.
Amanda Ramirez
July 2014 | back-issues, poetry
GHOST PLANE
FOR HELIOS AIRWAYS FLIGHT 522
Logic unhinges. Hallucinations
shuffle down the isles. A stray laugh
rises. Oxygen masks are little more
than decoys; we keep them strapped
to our cheeks, but can’t recall why.
Children hush, turn a dull blue.
Pilots slump across the controls
like scarecrows. The first nervous
dozen are luckiest, but after hours
of circling, we all quiet. Some swoon,
mutter as if gripped by nightmares.
A flight attendant breaches the cockpit
just as the engine is choked by flames.
Does he pant his last breath into a bank
of blinking lights, or meet the mountain’s
grey gaze? Do wildflowers flow down
the slope like a braid over a bare
shoulder? And does he reach out
to touch it, run it through
shaking, mortal fingers?
MASTER BIRDMAN
An aeroplane in the hands of Lincoln Beachey is poetry.
– Orville Wright
Stockings roll down; hair is unpinned.
Slim digits slip into my flying gloves,
cradle a helmet perfumed by hair tonic.
I draw gasps but slink out at daybreak.
Air’s the absolute, bears both gulls
and my crude craft, “a beat-up orange
crate.” Air wordlessly waits, its vastness
a dare, a glove swatted at my cheek.
So I must glide updrafts, plummet
to graze the ground with one fingertip.
The body submits, but it’s bloody, bones
heavier than hollow. So, it must breach
like a birth, sputter into a final spiral.
They’ll say I drowned, that it took hours
to fish me out by the suit I always wore
to fly. But they’ll do worse, grasping
the bars of a hospital bed, gulping
pudding from a plastic spoon. Better
to perform an aerial spin, misjudge
and get what they always expected—
swallow jellyfish and krill, midwifed
into blackness by silent, damp beasts.
WEIGHT OF THE WORLD
IN THE VOICE OF A MINOR DIETY
Feet wrapped in grave-gauze, I hunch to suck ink
off newspaper corners. So, tell me—war is spreading;
the latest madman pumped the morning full of bullets;
the ocean laps the toes of the Rockies. I used to float,
barely break a blade when I crossed the lawn, the choir’s
harmonies like bellows, a child’s sleeping chest. Then
I shrunk to a shadow, words an untidy clump of yarn
in my mouth. Pass the latest screen and light me from
below like a ghost story; give me the artless and brief,
no epics to draw up earthworms like a thunderstorm.
You’ve stuck too many grubby, doubting digits in my
direction. I’ll enter with the beggars, virgin-hungry
as a volcano; but I’d stop all this ill wishing, scanning
the horizon for quaking, if you’d just dig a coin from
your pocket, flick it, tenderly, down the storm drain.
by Luiza Flynn-Goodlett
Luiza Flynn-Goodlett migrated to the Bay Area, after completion of her MFA at The New School. She was awarded the Andrea Klein Willison Prize for Poetry upon graduation from Sarah Lawrence College. Her work has appeared in numerous literary journals, including Oberon Poetry, Meridian, Lumina, CALYX Journal, and Prism Review. She recently completed her first book, Congress of Mud.
