* You gargle the way each morning trusts the soft rustle from a dress becoming dirt, set out on foot
looking for her in shadows that no longer move though the sink is covered with something weak
making believe it’s learned where your fingers are holding the bottle in a […]
I found a father who sings In the changeless light. I found a son with two torn-out heart strings.
In the old wind a young bird Is taking shape With twin eggs burning in his throat.
On the way to an unspecified kingdom A pilgrim falls down And weeps.
two cupfuls of scotch on the table: yours was plain dark caramel, mine, pale and reckless on the rocks
outside the window your upturned face stitched planets and stars where the night sky opened and closed its wings
inside the house I lifted my nose and breathed heavy […]
Arms rigid in front of us, hands clutching tombstone-shaped floatboards, faces in water, we tried not to let the burning chlorine of the Jewish Community Center pool in.
Poolside, our mothers chatted complacently, observing our Deadman’s Float. Dennis towered over us. “Breathe.” I twisted my neck, an ear, […]
Now he, who is tender when he harvests the field, reaches for his lover with cracked hands; calloused skin against smooth.
And she, skin the mango color of her country, pulls him against the dusky warmth of her stomach; downy hair beside coarse.
He is covered in the […]
Populating the Dark
Kami, like light or pollen, Renegade music at the forest’s edge, Are always showing In the bleared treetops, In the cosmonaut’s dreams. They are ruptures in the casual routine, Sleights in the daily business, Sudden flowering gods Secretly upsetting the office order, Or more intently Driving the market crash, […]
Chloe N. Clark
& Other Ways to Read the Dirt
What have we done to one another what grievances have we let seep into the soil. We dig our fingers into the ground as if we wish to tear out our
own hair by the roots. You know, we have filled the […]
in place of dreaming a black noose slips into my right eye
it sways to a melody
it says some day you will wake up to a real lynching
past the back fence a black tire swings casually
TR Dillon is a writer who lives and works in […]
Holly Lyn Walrath
1. The air is silent in the fields, no longer charged, no longer clattering with the voices of men and cannons, nor the far-off beat of the drummer boy. The sunlight is buried behind the hills touching them with a final purple hue. Its warmth does not […]
Introduction to Poetry in Issue 58
Welcome to the spring issue full of remarkable poetry. I did my best to enhance the experience with artwork (some as found, others combined/overlaid in PowerPoint with image effects applied). A few comments on the poetry and artwork are sequentially listed below:
1. “Revolution” by Holy Lyn Walrath (Seabrook, […]