July 2016 | poetry
A Sudden Wind
makes leaves tremble,
bends branches,
lifts my hair, tangles.
Enters my nostrils,
steals my breath.
I turn
against its surge,
look down;
dust whirls upward,
blinds me,
grips my throat.
I taste it.
I am being whittled away
to join its force,
relinquish
resistance.
Guardian of the Night
An asteroid plowed
into Earth, belly-fire
and debris mingled,
coalesced into a sphere,
finding its orbit nearby.
The moon shines silver
or breathes sunlit gold,
peeks through darkness
into windows. Its glow
fills the hollows in my heart,
lights wings of imagination.
Guardian of my night,
continue your journey
an inch plus a year
toward the sun.
by Pamela Hammond
Pamela Hammond was born in Chicago, grew up in Southern California, and now lives in Santa Monica. For more than a decade, she worked as a Los Angeles-based critic for Art News based in New York. Her love of nature has led her to hike, backpack and travel, often to Northern California, and to Alaska, the Southwest, Hawaii, and New Zealand’s South Island, which became her home for almost a year. She completed two chapbooks, Encounters (2011) and Clearing (2012), produced by Red Berry Editions, Fairfax, California. In 2013, her work appeared in Forge, Assisi, Foliate Oak, Broad River Review, and Tulane Review. In 2014, her work appeared in Cold Mountain Review, Crack the Spine, Drunk Monkeys, Whistling Shade, Chaparral, Valparaiso Poetry Review, and Westward Quarterly. In 2015, her work is forthcoming in Griffin and The Penmen Review. Her poem “Winter Walk” appeared in Crack the Spine’s Spring 2014 print anthology.
July 2016 | poetry
With only a pursed lip
and tone of crazed despair,
my body constricts itself,
the way a snake takes hold of it’s prey
right before the kill.
And you know the way
your throat closes and reopens
with the tangled sentiment of choked back tears?
No, wait.
That’s me, too.
And then the panic sets in-
the black of eyelids falling privy
to sudden heat, as it inches
as far as my fingertips-
where jagged nails are now
smooth and growing,
like the red dahlia stunted in shadows,
now blooms full with the sun.
I want to feel the freedom
of a criminal.
Send me away…
Anywhere, but here, I cry.
Anywhere,
but
here.
by Hannah Bushman
Self-proclaimed humanitarian, Hannah Bushman, is a lover of literature, music, and peppermint tea. She believes that the right song on a television show can make all the difference in the world. Hannah is a graduate of John Carroll University with a Bachelor’s degree in Psychology. In addition to poetry, Hannah revels in the creativity of photography and the logistics of psychology.
July 2016 | poetry
The days
nest—
precariously—
like empty
bowls.
*
A gold cigarette
butt, twisted
candy wrapper, discarded
plastic spoon, and dark,
flattened disk of gum
surround a blade
of grass growing
from a broken sidewalk,
the sprig seeming
a humble
probe of life
after
devastation, kindred spirit
to the tender
fleck of green
floating
on the quiet
pond in the spoon.
by Mark Belair
Mark Belair’s poems have appeared in numerous journals, including Alabama Literary Review, Atlanta Review, The Cincinnati Review, Harvard Review, Michigan Quarterly Review, Poetry East and The South Carolina Review. His most recent collection is Breathing Room (Aldrich Press, 2015). Previous collections include Night Watch (Finishing Line Press, 2013); While We’re Waiting (Aldrich Press, 2013); and Walk With Me (Parallel Press of the University of Wisconsin at Madison, 2012). He has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize three times. For more information, please visit www.markbelair.com
