P. J. Nights( Maine )Mark DeCarteret, Two Poemsif we were scienceThirteen years after the discovery of the electron,
JJ Thomson’s thoughts turned to the physics of golf.stunted grass applauds a performance on the pencil tip of purple and yellow crocuses the wise catching of black pine boughs above a pump handle brings up dark waters and insecurities from bedrock blossoms! after what I have done.. dare I navigate the tender underbelly of the morning you purr forgiveness in lilies-of-the-valley every poem a glass triangle its sides from gargoyle to horizon to your left ear the languorousness of the river is no excuse for words catapulted your way in a procession of white flowers my eager arms are flung down in defeat I steep in bones as words breath into a harmonica that completely re-letters tomorrow
( Stratham, New Hampshire )Rebecca Lu Kiernanepicmost of my struggling w/the gods was done in my sweats but then came the much talked about exile the one too many run-ins w/the wives are upper cases safe for consumption? even the garbage here's golden-hued: a rind or empty carton of milk turning somehow heroic & bestial as a boy I’d imagined myself raised by wolves saw to visions of ringlets & urns always urns to fend off the glut of fiber optics the vacant lots & weapon shows yes it’s no wonder I am off now tsked tsked by those softest of palettes where I cross myself again & again best thinking I’ve slept off a centuryinspirationalwhy is it w/my pen finally finding its groove this century of orphans has alighted on my sill? o the parenthetical body! the heart inflamed like a monkey’s butt! if only this grinding of teeth would bestow us more elixirs: the world somehow finding it in itself to once again mind us( on the Gulf Coast )Laurel K. DodgeThe PsychiatristThis angelic tenderness is too much. Your office, too burgundy, too leather. Your desk is too cherrywood. You have gone overboard in decoration. I am sick of your x-ray vision, Your unnerving telepathy And irresponsible precognition, The way you try to medicate my ghosts away Because they are such stiff competition. Your hands and eyes are too soft. Your mouth opens mine without warning. You taste like butterscotch and Red Bull. I rake my hand through your stylishly graying hair, Your fingers, so deep inside me Making circles, wide and wider Preparing me for the thickness of you. I straddle you, One berry brown nipple in your mouth And milk your one o’clock erection With my Kegel muscles Because the wingback chair Creaks guiltily when we move. As you climax, I stretch your mouth, Forcing my whole breast inside So your waiting patients cannot hear The way you cry out when you come. That’s what you say my dream meant, The two of us playing chess in the storm After missing the train, Never getting wet Because we don’t believe in rain.( Ohio )Tree RiesenerArchaic Torso of a DaughterMy muscles are singing right now. Wherever you are right now, consider your hand gently squeezed. So gently, you might not notice the slight pressure. I never was much of a hugger. Like father, like daughter. Like two flightless birds, we’d approach each other uneasily. We had no clue what to do with our beaks, our wings. The space between us (call it air, call it silence) was always the friend and enemy. My muscles are singing right now. Someday, I will lose my head and my limbs and you won’t be able to see that my mouth and my eyes and my arms were wide open. I will be a torso, bleached white by the waves, a piece of driftwood floating in the water. Wherever you are right now, consider your hand, father. I was afraid to hold that cold appendage. It wasn’t made of stone. It wasn’t a piece of art that would survive the ages. On the last day, I held it, even though by then you’d lost that most basic instinct, to grip, to cling. Someday, none of this will matter. But right now, my muscles are singing as I consider your hand. My hand, my hand.( Wayne, Pennsylvania )Martin Willittsno one night standscientists say the two fossils swarm cells a stage in the development of the fungus myxomycetes also known as slime molds have been fused together in sexual union for thirty-five million years at the bottom of a thirty-foot-deep dry well deep in the ground below upper paleolithic caves in the state of madhya pradesh india the first time sexual copulation has been discovered in the fossil state the lovers were aged thirty-six and thirty-eight in a state of perfect preservation her skin a little rough and freckled the condition of her hands leading to speculation of an outdoor occupation his hands contrastively callused only on the left fingers perhaps typical of a musician who played a stringed instrument around her waist she wore a fine golden chain with no visible clasp a perfect circle of linked gold the sexual organs were delicate and the time of conjugation short-lived according to the october edition of the indian journal current science.( New York )Nicholas MessengerThe JourneyNow it begins, this journey towards wellness through countryside’s of pain, days knuckling under, whiteness flashes thunder in the nerves. The passage is difficult, full of words we do not understand. If you look up twinge it also means tenderness. There is no tenderness in pain. It does not care. ----it only cares to make you tender so you do not want to get up again. It twitches several locations as earthquakes. You try to prepare for the expedition. You take rice paper the color of hurt, a Raven’s feather to write memories, and prayer clinched in fists of lightning.( Hokitika, New Zealand )Pui Ying WongTruantThe autumn sun pools on the bottom of the steps that lead up to the shrine. A silver cat has crept up to the corner of the lane. He’s spying on a school girl, crouching in the sunlight, cribbing homework in a quiet hurry beside her tilted bicycle. Although the early classes have already started there are still some children out. And in the frameworks of the trees some leaves still left to pluck. The girl shifts on her haunches, works with parted lips; the cat, perhaps in harmony of feeling, shifts on, and licks his. The old man going past is struck by the thought that there is more than mathematics on the dazzled page before her, and he steals a glance. And sees from underneath her bunched, erratic fingers, trickling sentences are spreading out. Around her, sparkling midges dance a rout.( Brooklyn, New York )Maureen McHughVisiting my sister in AustraliaSmog in the sky, bushfire burning outside the city. The constellation has changed. I’m under. The years peel off like old skin. My sister sipping coffee, her eyes wide; between us, a blooming walnut tree. Strange all these fruits, maybe spring won’t go to ruin after all. December, this side of world, sprigs of green fruits round into each other. It took us forever to count, moments long enough to freeze a heartache – unfurl and release. If memories can sever from their roots, will they become sacrament too like harvest fruits we put in a dish? Cut one open, the meat is babyish.( Maryland )Jeff CrouchHula-hoopDeliriously dropping the hoops over their heads, hands dishing- out, they smile with satellite eyes, black-pupiled, keep sharp count by the swish of the hoop, plastic and perfect. Around them it orbits: hair flying out soft and atmospheric. 45, 46, 47, 48— Olivia gone down to the store to get more chalk— Amy stays, inside herself, haloed and planetary.( Grand Prairie, Texas )Ghost Townabandoned on asphalt large heat its own friend an airy glass sheen beckons wafting chemical noon wears on the mute button – a receipt escapes your hand whose carriage returns . . . the rain rolling slowly canned corn, tomorrow for trout, and piano, pack a gun tumble in, trysting, tries a mix of lie, freedom souped up the dinosaur rubs shoe against shoe, shoe leather let her go, whose skin pterodactyl; lips glisten hides belly, belly hides twin boot natal (ore) fatal purse is the camera bone to is the watch part of a corpse gold ticking abandoned time, keeper shaft opens mine snatch water drips drunkly a mine echo green useless museums green keep putting on cologne ripe now with melons backyard wells far go between page after page, spot of a taste flipping thanks train ride bridal remember insisting weeds grow from the end until now it spilled spot of lightning rice seed spilled folding chair and coffee stain the guests are leaving
1 - Thrum of Wings
II - Eclipsed by the Whirr and Squeak
III - Raw Silk in the Mouth
Review - Suzanne Frischkorn
Review - Nicole Cartwright Denison
Essay - C. E. Chaffin
Featured Poet - Sandra Beasley
Contributors
Current Issue - Summer 2007
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