Fence for Margie She built that fence in the snow. All we saw of her was her red anorak and the upward flash of her tool, a hammer. Later, after her husband died and we tried to visit she wouldn’t come to the door. Now all that’s left is that fence, weathered, sturdy, still barring us, though she has moved away. She took her dog with her but she left the dish behind. Now, it sits there like a bright blue plug. We think if we remove it the whole yard may swirl inward, … Continue reading Fence by Corey Mesler→
Being Me The Trip across Texas is mine. Well, it’s in my name. The bank picks up the tab, I grab the fantasy: he practices my autograph in a cheap motel like a kid does Mickey Mantle’s. His girlfriend is horny, pretty and young, naked but for an anklet with chain linked to a ring on her toe. Her thighs are tattooed with flames. He says, “Wait one Goddamn minute,” goes out to test my card on a carton of Camels, beer and a convenience store rose. “YES, YES,” she shouts applauding his success. … Continue reading Being Me by Thomas Michael McDade→
Accidental Stowaway from Singapore, no papers or passport, surname unknown, Short-tailed Babbler, Japanese White-eye, Orange-bellied Flowerpecker, whoever you are, passing passerine, drawn to perch on a lifeboat winch by some crumb or flash of an earring as tugs yank the ship out into channel and two days later, in the South China Sea, you’re stuck too, nowhere to flee from here to horizon, as shown by forays of fluttering panic over the waves and back before exhaustion drowns you, little prisoner, condemned to be transported to a dirtier city, or if you hang on … Continue reading Accidental by Stephen Cushman→
Lover’s Quarrel 1 Because you cling like cigarette smoke, thin and acrid, in the brim of my hat, as if you know God lives on the addiction of our breath. 2 When the shadows finish wallpapering the bedroom, and the crows flock east with the traffic, is when. 3 How can I watch, in peace, the city bathe behind the sheer plastic shower curtain of the rain? My eyes towel off a nakedness not ours. 4 Because it’s late, and we know it will all expire, and I’ve programmed the wind, an oscillating fan, … Continue reading Lover’s Quarrel; At the Intersection by Stephen Hitchcock→
Voices I would be sitting there idly twirling the strawberry perched on top of the plump red pincushion while she was hunched over the singer filigreed foot pedal making rhythmical clicking sounds as sky blue fabric folded in creamy waves under the needle mother’s voice soft and dreamy answering someone only she could hear a revelation to me that anyone else could have a surging inner-life when I had always assumed each stitch every sigh was meant for me alone Janice Bowen says, “When poetry found me, I was lollygagging — leading an easy … Continue reading Voices by Janice Bowen→
Katie on Fire Sunset and silence, chocolate bars and coffee— Katie fingers rifle shells after dinner, stacked in rows and flicked the way a child does dominoes. These mountains have a way of messing with one’s marbles, loose, scattered…sometimes spilled. She had banked on babies, and her husband holding still; got busted fence instead, scattered cattle, a cold bed. Tomorrow— ten inches of new snow twenty degrees, and another dog to bury. Peach blossoms in April— she can only dream pounding the floorboards raw pacing off caffeine. Fresh butter beans, strawberries ripe and dirt … Continue reading Katie on Fire; Just a Drip by Dan Bieker→
Woman at the Post Office An old woman’s trouble in deciding is holding up the line. Another crowd, another time, a loudmouth might complain, but here in mid-morning, the retired, mothers, students, all stand quiet. Her jaw slowly slackening, insistence draining from her face. Finally, she lifts her finger —a pronouncement, or merely a flicker?— and the clerk says, that’ll be seven-fifty. We witnesses stop holding our breath. She reaches into her bag, that reflex intact, and no wonder, considering how a woman’s life is comprised of procurement. The clerk hands back her change. … Continue reading Woman at the Post Office by Kristen Staby Rembold→
Optional Yoga at Sunrise We’re told to drop into each breath then release the air like wind in the trees. Outside, a windmill slices light. The murmuring pines are all piñons. The desert flows into the mountains. The air is dry as sand. We’re told to look but not to focus, but I can close both eyes and follow a ripple of wind across a lagoon where it reaches a beach outlined by palms, barely ruffling their fronds. My yoga wants to be the balmy kind, the early morning dozing kind. With practice and … Continue reading Optional Yoga at Sunrise by Daniel Becker→
Letter to the Body If only you were the pure self, we would not have to bargain or pray, offer up good deeds for relief of pain, or apologies for spasms and expectorations. The cells could absorb and discharge at leisure. Whatever waste washes ashore in the brain or in the heart, would, without shame, increase the one being. No struggle to justify, no explaining we’re really much better than our hunched back, our protuberances, just the material presence, occupying space, insular and detaching, floating away for a day on the sea’s silver face, … Continue reading Letter to the Body by Roselyn Elliott→
Self Check-out Of course I have my doubts, but when no one’s looking I pretend I’m someone else: the tightrope walker, The Great Farini, crossing Niagara Falls with a man on my back. Or the veiled beekeeper squeezing the bellows of my smoker to calm the hive. I wish I could reverse time to meet the doctor who, so eager to rid my mother of scarlet fever, told her to cut her rocking horse’s mane, told her it would grow back. I’d explain how a lie rearranges the world, and in a very dangerous … Continue reading Two Poems by Charlotte Matthews→
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